


City by the Sea

by Black_Betty



Series: City by the Sea [1]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Arranged Marriage, Charles Is a Darling, Erik is confused and emotionally constipated, M/M, Royalty, Shaw is menacing, Violence, Virginity, badass Moira is badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 01:44:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 56,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Betty/pseuds/Black_Betty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It never bothered Charles that he essentially belonged to someone else from birth. Ever since he could remember he had been told stories about the mysterious prince who was his betrothed, and who one day would be called husband. As he grew older, Charles caught his thoughts drifting away from lessons under strict tutors, his mind slipping into the hazy daydream of his life yet to come...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill I've been working on over at xmen-firstkink for this prompt:
> 
>  http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/6437.html?thread=10949157#t10949157
> 
> Many thanks to reppu for getting me into the Ao3 community--this is my first time posting here, so bear with me! But I'm glad to be here, and I'm glad this exists so I can start to archive this mother in one place!! Thanks to everybody who's been so supportive on the kink meme thus far--I'm hugging you all...can you feel it? No? I'll try harder :)

 

CITY BY THE SEA

 

It never bothered Charles that he essentially belonged to someone else from birth. Ever since he could remember he had been told stories about the mysterious prince who was his betrothed, and who one day would be called  _husband_. As he grew older, Charles caught his thoughts drifting away from lessons under his stoic tutors, his mind slipping into the hazy daydream of his life yet to come. He imagined he could see the prince’s face painted in sunlight through the stained glass in the library, or hear his voice in each note of music, each murmured conversation. He couldn’t shake the looming promise on the horizon, or the multitude of questions swimming through his brain. 

What would the prince think about science and biology? Would he wonder about the universe? What colour would his hair be after the rain? Would he be quick to laugh - and what would his mouth look like when he smiled? Would he create war, or music or brilliant thought? Would his hands be callused? Would he be rough when he touched Charles, or would he move softly in the dead of night, under finely spun sheets…

 Charles was not afraid of being married off to a virtual stranger in the name of peace and politics. When he thought of his future husband, it was with excitement and longing. He counted the days until his eighteenth birthday when he would come of age and escape the stone prison of his childhood, his isolation and aching days and nights alone. He thought of his future and was full of hope. He wanted to belong to someone and keep that person tucked close to his own heart in turn. That more than his husband, he might call the prince his friend, might get to call him by that short perfect name he had rolled around on his tongue and tested out, muffled into his pillow as he drifted into sleep, and breathed onto frosted windowpanes.  _Erik_.

Charles’ birthday came and went without much fanfare. There was a lavish ball where Charles was polished to a shine and seated atop the center table for everyone to look at and admire, but there was no personal touch, no loving embrace as he bid fond farewell to his childhood. It would have passed like almost any other birthday, except for one thing: this birthday signaled the end. And the beginning. Soon he would trade his shining cage for another. He could only assume that life was about to get better.

And then suddenly the day was there. The day when the doors were thrown open and his piles of well tailored clothes were loaded into heavy wooden trunks and heaped onto the carriage that would take him away. That would take him to Erik, who he had dreamed about for so long. He wondered if he would be smart, or handsome, or funny. He hoped he would be kind if nothing else. Charles had not experienced much kindness in his eighteen years.


	2. Chapter 2

Passing out of his kingdom and entering Erik’s was like moving out of nighttime into the light of day. Westchester was a place of austere beauty, cold columns of marble, muted tapestries, elaborately carved furniture. A museum of wealth and good taste that was untouchable and aloof. There had been no comfort for him there as a child, only a constant instilling of the principle that he too was a valuable heirloom, an ivory child that was to be seen and not heard. The castle had been well fortified and isolated, miles of forest and field keeping enemy and predator at arm’s length.

The kingdom of Genosha was built around a bay, shining water reflecting the sun, cobblestone streets winding through colourful fisherman’s huts close to the piers. The houses grew taller the closer they got to the palace, and already he could see its golden spires poking at the sky, set atop a hill. As his entourage moved through the streets the townspeople poked their heads out of windows, hurrying out onto their doorsteps to try and catch a glimpse of the man who would marry their Prince at the end of the day.

His guards pressed in closer around him and his mother leaned forward, reaching out an elegant thin hand to ensure that the shade on his window was pulled shut. Charles was forced to view his new home through a slit of flapping material. It still looked beautiful, even in mere flashes of light and colour and water.

The curtain was finally drawn back when they slowly to a halt in the long curving drive out front of the Palace. It was grander up close than from a distance, brilliant and luminous in the late morning sun. Charles attention was drawn to the trio of figures at the top of the towering stone staircase, standing in front of an arching entranceway draped in thick red cloth.

In the centre was a tall man with broad shoulders, his face lined with age, his hair downy white underneath a crown of delicately spun gold. Charles recognized him from his history books, though he looked significantly less like a King then Charles remembered, smiling and standing in the sun. His weathered smile broadened as the horses drew to a halt and he raised his arms in welcome, throwing the folds of his cloak cascading over his shoulders in a fall of thick velvet.

To the right of the King stood a somber, stoic man dressed all in black, his thick dark hair combed back neatly, his gloved hand flexing around the grip of his sword. Charles thought he might be General of the Genoshan army. He had heard of him only as myth and legend in Westchester, as a storytale figure of blood and war. Just a glance at his face made Charles uneasy. Like thunder in the distance.

Eventually his gaze drawn unerringly toward the man standing to the left of the King, a young man only a few years older then Charles. Suddenly there he was - Erik - standing right in front of him. Nothing else, not the King or his menacing guard, or the bright celebration exploding around him seemed important any longer.

At first sight he was tall and broad of shoulder like his father, slim like the blade of a sword, his stance broadcasting danger, his arms folded tightly across his chest. His hair was dark but shone red in the sun, and even the scowl on his face could not conceal how very handsome he was. Charles felt his stomach flip over and his breath shudder and catch in his throat. Before the day was out, they would be wed, and before the night was over they would…

He swallowed hard and ran his hands nervously over the lapels of his suit jacket. First things first, he supposed.

He stepped out of the carriage after his mother and slowly ascended the steps, flanked on either side by the Royal Genoshan Guard, their swords raised in benediction and greeting. Charles watched his feet carefully, terrified that he might trip and fall when all eyes were on him. When he glanced up he noticed there was one person pointedly looking away.

Erik was still folded in on himself, his gaze cast to the side toward the water, his mouth a thin line. Nervous, maybe? Charles himself was full of vibrating tension, coiling in his knees and elbows, making him feel as though he might break apart.

When they reached the top of the stairs King Jakob bowed in greeting and Kurt followed suit. It was a simple bow of equals, two great men of similar status showing one another a sign of respect. The gathered crowd cheered and palace servants showered brightly coloured petals down upon them from the balustrade. It felt like a dream.

Jakob reached back and slid a hand behind his son, pulling him forward and presenting him. Erik bowed stiffly at Charles’ parents and Charles could see them assessing him. He wondered what they would have done if Erik had been old, or ugly, or violent. Would have married him off regardless, he supposed.

His thoughts scattered away when Erik turned to look at him next. Distantly he was aware that Kurt was presenting him in turn, but for the moment all he could see was the blue-green of Erik’s eyes. Charles felt pierced through. Never mind that the look in his eyes was hard, like steel, they were still the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.

He knew that the traditional custom of Genosha was for soon to be betrothed couples to kiss upon first meeting, but Charles parents had vetoed that in the marriage negotiations. Charles, previously, had been thankful of his kingdom’s more prudish sensibilities thinking that he was glad to avoid the embarrassment of a first kiss occurring in front of so many people. Now all he wanted was for Erik to uncross his arms, to unfurl like a flower and catch his face in those long fingers. To feel his mouth against his own. Charles had never been kissed before and had never wanted to be kissed so badly in all his life.

Instead Erik offered him a silted bow, his mouth tightening as he was forced to look Charles over. Charles returned the bow hesitantly, with as much grace as he could muster, and then they were swept inside amidst the fanfare and falling flowers. As Charles followed him in, he saw that Erik had a waxy purple blossom caught in his hair. His fingers itched to brush it away, to feel that elegant brow under his fingers. He kept his hands resolutely by his sides.

***

Upon entering the castle, Charles was almost immediately sequestered in a large room of thick damask and soft cushions in warm colours, and lit lamps of burnished gold. Through the open windows he could smell salt on the air, could hear the call of sea birds. He felt something blossom in his chest and suspected it might be hope. Or happiness. 

He had only a few moments to explore and absorb his surroundings before the carved wooden door of the room opened and a group of women entered. They curtseyed and there was a moment of solemnity as they stood before him, their eyes downcast toward the floor. Charles was unsure of what to do, of what the proper protocol in Genosha was for addressing servants, so he cleared his throat and tried to avoid making a fool of himself.

“Hello. I’m Charles,” he said trying to school his voice into something calm, something that wouldn’t reveal how nervous he was. “Thank you for your help.” He was afraid for a moment that he had made a mistake, but they looked up and smiled and the one with blond hair said,

“Our honour and pleasure, sir.” He found himself smiling back.

“Please call me Charles.” They exchanged glances and their smiles grew.

All three of them were young, bright and beautiful, and introduced themselves in a flurry of activity, unpacking his trunk, pulling off his heavy traveling cloak, manhandling him towards a door at the back of the room which, when opened, revealed a large bathroom of blue and green tile and a large copper tub situated in the centre of the room.

“This is yours,” said the blond, the one called Raven, a name he had never heard before. It suited her: pretty, sharp, and about to take flight. “This washing room and the other room are yours alone. That door there,” she pointed across the sitting room to another door, larger and more elaborately carved, “leads to your bedroom, which you’ll share with the Prince.” Charles felt his face heat.

“He won’t come in to these rooms without your permission,” said the woman called Moira. She seemed more serious than the others, her dark hair pulled back from her face, dressed in dark trousers and boots where the others wore gem coloured dresses. She looked him in the eye and said firmly, “it’s our custom.” Charles nodded, and felt something ease within his chest. Moira smiled encouragingly and continued, “We are also here to serve you as your valets.” Raven and the other girl, Angel—tattoos scrawling down her arms unlike anything Charles had ever seen—curtseyed and grinned at him unabashedly.

He had never known such brash women but got over his shyness soon enough as they stripped him of his clothes and dunked him into a tub full of warm rose water. They laughed and sang while they scrubbed him down, rubbing sweet smelling oil into his skin, washing his hair and combing perfume through it until it was dry.

He subjected himself to the lavish treatment, accustomed to it from years of birthdays and court events in which he was shown off, but while those instances or preparation were cold and impersonal, the servants in his father’s castle casting their eyes away from his naked body, Raven and Moira and Angel made him feel warm and welcomed, their hands secure and sure on his skin, their laughter filling an empty space inside him he hadn’t realized existed. In a few short hours, these three girls had shown him more affection and attention then he had collected in many, many years at home.

They ushered him out of the bathroom and back into the sitting room where Angel pulled open the smaller chest that contained his wedding finery. He was subjected to several minutes of nudity, wrapped in a silken sheet while they praised his tailoring of his suit, the tiny detailing on his shoes, the delicate embroidery of his scarf to be tied around his throat.

Charles had never really spared much thought for the fine things produced by Westchester, usually contenting himself (and appalling his mother) with his more practical and less flattering clothing choices. He was glad for them today, thinking about how tall and striking Erik had been even before he put on his wedding finery, hoping he’d come remotely close to the beauty of his future husband. Through the window he could see the sun falling toward the rim of the horizon outside and thought about how each moment moved him closer to his impending wedding. He twisted the sheet nervously in his hands.

Suddenly Moira was there in front of him, pulling the sheet from him and squeezing his hands bracingly, her eyes level, her smile kind and reassuring. She carefully folded the sheet over her arm and called the girls to bring over his clothes. They seemed to take in his mood and dressed him with great care, their murmuring voices as soothing as their firm, yet careful hands. He allowed himself to be lulled and soon Raven was turning him toward the mirror.

“Look at yourself Charles.”

He looked the same as he always did, just a little more polished, the pale gold of his waistcoat cinching in his middle, the blue of his jacket bringing out the blue of his eyes. His trousers were tailored for once and his legs looked surprisingly lean. He was unremarkable, plain and ordinary—but well dressed enough that he looked the part of “Prince of Westchester.” The girls had done the best with what they had to work with, and he said as much, thanking them absentmindedly while he fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt, adjusting the tightly wound scarf at his throat.

Raven’s face screwed up, and she looked like she might say something else, but Angel laid a hand on her arm and smiled at him.

“It was our pleasure.” She flicked a glance at the others. “I think I speak for all of us when I say, we look forward to serving you in the future, Charles.”

Something clenched in his chest when memories of the servants in Westchester flashed through his mind, their cold hands and colder demeanor, and he stammered, “Oh, I hope you don’t think of it as serving—I was rather hoping…well, that we all might be friends?”

Something brightened in their expressions as they smiled and nodded, and the joy that had been seeping into his heart lit up like a flame. Moira laid a careful hand on his arm.

“Charles, it’s time.” 

And suddenly everything seized up with tension once again.

***

It seemed like too long and too soon when he found himself standing at the end of a beautiful room, long and rectangular, a wall of arched windows facing outwards towards the sea along one side, a line of ornate gold lamps falling from the ceiling on the other. Courtiers of all ages, shapes and sizes filled the room, dressed in bright brilliant colours and layers of rich thick cloth, leaving just enough space for him to pass through.

His parents were there, standing next to the king, but they were a blur of colour and golden crowns, dim and faded in contrast to Erik who stood waiting for him in the red-yellow light of the setting sun. He was wearing tall black boots that were polished to a shine over a close fitted maroon suit and tails. He looked so handsome, so tall and mature and strong that Charles nearly ran from the room. He felt too young, too foppish and silly in his fancy clothes, his girlish hair. He wanted to apologize to Erik, wanted to crawl into his bed at home with his stacks of books and ink stained sheets and never show his face again.

There was a hand at the small of his back, bolstering him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Raven smiling at him, her hand pushing him gently forward. Moira was standing right behind her and she mouthed, “breathe” at him and he did, taking a deep inhalation, filling his lungs with air, amassing his courage. She nodded at him and he felt his mouth quirk in a smile before he nodded back and turned to face the hall. Turned to face Erik and what would soon be the rest of his life.

***

The ceremony itself passed in a blur, full of half understood traditions and long winded passages of sacred text. Charles’s people were not overly religious, while Erik’s had a long-standing, engrained spirituality that was as beautiful as it was confusing to Charles. He processed down the flower scattered aisle with Raven and Moira and Angel at his back and stood next to Erik, followed the softly spoken directions of an ancient, withered man who presided over the mass.

Erik looked at him with the same closed off, indifferent expression from before. Charles could barely look back, but when their hands were bound together in a long strip of red velvet meant to symbolize fidelity and love and longevity, Charles chanced a glance up at him, looking into those sea green eyes and smiling. Erik’s expression tightened further and he looked down at their bound hands instead. 

Charles felt another quiver of something shifting in his chest, but he swallowed it down and tried to concentrate on the low vowels and resonating consonants of the King and court as they raised their hands over them in blessing.

And then it was done. They were being presented as officially wed and though he held his hand loosely, Erik was standing as far away from him as possible.

Following the marriage ceremony was an enormous reception in the grand ballroom, a domed room of murals and flowers and shimmering lights. Charles sat next to Erik at a small table on a dais in the centre of the room, surrounded by hundreds of people who were danced to lively music played by musicians wandering through the crowd.

His parents and Kind Jakob sat on the far side of the room on another towering platform, his mother’s face frozen in a moue of disgust, Kurt looking completely disinterested. Jakob looked pleased, and when he caught Charles’ eye from across the crowded room, graced him with a smile that Charles returned gratefully.

He turned back to Erik who was sipping from a golden cup decisively, his gaze fixed on the dancers, his lips turned down at the corners. Charles was beginning to think that maybe he never smiled.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He meant the dancers, the music, the swirl of colour and sparkling light. He could see Raven amongst the revelers pulling a tall lanky boy with glasses into a jig that consisted of her twirling around him while he gazed at her adoringly. She saw Charles watching her and waved merrily, and before he could catch himself, he was waving back.

When Erik snorted next to him, he turned his attention away from the crowd, his stomach dropping at the look of derision his new husband directed at him.

“I’m sure wealth and decoration count for much in Westchester,” his mouth curled around the word like it was a bitter and unwanted taste in his mouth, “but I think you’ll find here that we place value in something more…substantial.”

He turned his electric gaze away from Charles and drank deeply from his glass. Charles tried to smother down the curl of unhappiness when he realized the first words his husband had chosen to grace him with were hard, and unkind.

***

At midnight, while the festivities still raged on, as more barrels of wine were tapped and more platters of food were brought out and eagerly consumed by the celebratory crowd, a high note sounded, clear and precise, cutting through the raucous noise.

Charles looked around to see what it signalled and was aware when all eyes turned toward him. Glancing down, he saw that Raven and Angel had gathered at the bottom of the dais behind Moira who was slowly mounting the stairs. All three were flushed with wine and excitement, but Moira looked at him seriously when she reached the last step, bowing to Erik and extending a hand to Charles.

“It’s time,” she said, and when he automatically reached out to grasp her hand in turn, the crowd erupted into ecstatic applause, the music starting again with vigor. Moira drew him from his seat and when he shot a confused look at Erik, the man only returned it with the same unreadable expression he had offered Charles at their first meeting.

He made his way down the stairs and Raven and Angel closed ranks around him, making sure no party guest got too close. He leaned in close to Moira. 

“Time for what?”

 She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “Time for the final act of tradition for the day.”

It took him a moment, taking in the expressions of the courtiers, slightly lascivious with drink, craning his neck to look back at Erik, who remained seated and expressionless, before he realized what she meant.

Time for bed. Time to be bedded. 

For a moment he thought he might pass out. He blamed the wine.

***

He wasn’t sure how he managed to get to his rooms. Maybe the girls led him by the hand, time passing in a blur, the walls of the palace moving alongside him in a whirl of colour and shape. He came back to himself when the door snapped shut behind him, found he was standing in the middle of his private quarters, his arms hanging limply by his sides.

A gentle hand on crept onto his shoulder and he turned to see Angel standing next to him, a soft smile creasing her full lips. 

“Let’s get you undressed then, shall we?” He might have nodded, or spoken aloud, his thoughts and words jumbled together in the swirl of his mind but the girls seemed to understand and began stripping his layers away.

Finally naked in the room, he curled his toes in the plush fur beneath his feet, felt the cool sea breeze coming in through the open window and shivered. He wrapped his arms around himself, dug his fingers into the spaces between his ribs. The girls came with soft cloth and wiped down his arms and legs, his back and chest until the sticky sweat of the ballroom and thick, constrictive cloth was cleaned away and he smelled sweet again. 

 _Sweet and pure_ a voice jeered at him from the back of his mind, and he pushed it away. It wouldn’t help to be frightened now. It was going to happen regardless of how nervous and inexperienced he was.

Moira approached him again with a thin cotton shirt that she slipped over his head. The hem hung down to his knees, the sleeves draping over his hands, the neck a wide V, gaping open, nearly falling off one shoulder.

“You’re smaller than we thought you would be.” She mumbled to herself, and when Charles tensed up, sickened by his own failings, she shushed him and grasped his hand, pushed the sleeve up to his elbow. “I didn’t mean it like that Charles.”

Raven came forward with a small container of something liquid and glossy that she dabbed over his collarbones, on his wrists and finally, across his mouth. It smelled like oranges and mint, and he was tempted to lick his lips. As she smoothed it further into the line of his throat Raven murmured,

“It looks better like this anyways,” her eyes flickered up and she cast him a wicked smile. “Like it’s about to fall off in a gust of wind.” He snorted and pushed her gently away, pleased to feel some of his tension flowing out of him with the gesture.

The valets stood back and looked him over, Angel confirming him complete with a decisive, “Perfect,” before they ushered him over to the closed door on the far end of the room. The forbidding, unopened door with the elegant carvings of birds and fish winding up the crest, mysterious creatures Charles couldn’t recognize, but yearned to discover crawling along the bottom.

The door to his bedroom.

In all his dreams about Erik, about life in Genosha, he hadn’t thought much about what his bedroom might look like. Perhaps it was because the flighty fantastic dreams of a young boy were more inclined toward the outdoors, or in Charles’ case, books encompassing the entire world beyond his walls.

It was more likely that Charles had not wanted to think about what would happen in the bedroom of his husband, having been preserved though isolation from the touch of any man or woman. He had only begun exploring his own body in the past few years, embarrassed, hesitant and fleeting caresses of his skin, half asleep fumbling as he tumbled out of dreams, his body hot and tight, his hands unsure how to alleviate the pressure.

The bedroom was as beautiful and as daunting as he might have expected. There were two curved doors that opened outwards to reveal a balcony that was full of moonlight and twisting vines, and the perfume of flowers. Inside the room was a fireplace lit with flame, warmth against the coolness of the night. There were two large armchairs by the hearth, a low table in between them, soft rugs upon the stone floor.

Every smooth surface was covered in lit candles and dripping wax, paper lanterns hung in clusters from the ceiling, flickering like tiny moons with orange and yellow light, and swaying back and forth in the breeze from the open door. In the centre of the room was a large platform of dark wood and on top of it a massive bed with a carved footboard and headboard, and miles of blankets in between.

“Good night Charles.” Moira’s voice snapped him out of his stunned and frozen exploration and he spun to see the valets curtsey. He almost reached out to them, almost begged them to wait, to stay with him until it was time. Instead he straightened out his spine and he nodded to them, scrounged up a smile as they shut the door. He could only do this part on his own.

The door shutting behind him was resolved and final. He was married now. He was a man.

Time to act like one.

He took a couple of deep breaths and shook his hands out, squared his shoulders and walked to the bed. He stepped up onto the platform and turned, gingerly settling himself on the mattress. It was as soft and luxurious as it looked, though he felt a bit young and silly with his feet dangling, the material of his shirt sliding up around his thighs.

He wondered if he should arrange himself provocatively, like the reclining nudes his mother hung in the salons at home, rounded and pink, casting coy looks from under their lowered lashes. He lay down with his head on the pillows and immediately felt too vulnerable, too exposed, not sensual or beautiful at all—all narrow hips and knobby knees and elbows. He sat up again, clasping his shaking hands between his thighs, shrugging the material of his shirt back over his shoulder where it had fallen down.

There was another door on the far side of the room and he heard a muted thump from behind it, the muffled sound of masculine voices, speaking to each other in low tones. He realized that Erik must have private rooms of his own and spared a moment to imagine what they might be like, what secret and prized possessions Erik might keep there, away from prying eyes.

He was only given a few moments of contemplation before the voices got slightly louder in proximity. Charles felt his heart jump into his throat, felt his breath rattling around in his rib cage like a caught sparrow. He squeezed his hands more tightly together and forced himself to shudder out another breath, forced himself to calm his fluttering mind.

It didn’t work. The handle on the door turned and as the door cracked open Charles could hear a female voice say, “Goodnight Sir,” over the rushing panic in his ears. Erik didn’t respond, only opened the door wider and stepped inside.

He was wearing a match to the long, white shirt Charles had on, only Erik’s shoulders stretched the cotton across his chest and his height meant that Charles could see miles and miles of long, lean legs, covered in light red-gold hair. The hem of the shirt only barely covered his groin, and Charles’ gaze snagged there.

He could feel his face burn, lit red like a flame, and refocused his eyes on Erik’s face. Erik was looking at him in turn, the moving shadows of the room obscuring his eyes, but Charles could still see that tightly wound mouth was pulled down into its favourite frown. 

They remained like that for a moment, Erik standing by the door, Charles sitting on the bed, locked in a state of frozen awkwardness. Charles’ mind raced, tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t be ridiculous, or embarrassing, that wouldn’t give away how desperately nervous he was. 

Erik suddenly jerked into motion, stalked across the room in long, confident strides, and for a moment Charles thought he was coming straight for him. But he changed direction before he got too close and bypassed Charles all together, walked around the bed to the other side. Charles watched his progress and twisted to face the centre of the bed, his body coiled in anticipation.

When Erik reached the other the side of the mattress, the side facing the open doors to the balcony, he twitched back the blankets with an economical gesture and slid gracefully underneath them. Charles waited, watched as he settled in and pulled the blankets to his chest, prepared for some overture, some movement in his direction. 

He tucked his knees under the blankets, crossing his bare legs and clutching the top of the bedspread with trembling hands. But Erik did nothing. Made no movement, body tensed, simply staring at the ceiling for a long, breathless moment.

Finally he shifted and turned his eyes toward Charles. 

“It’s been a long day. I’m sure you’re tired. Goodnight, Charles.”

And then he turned, rolling over onto his side, the wide breadth of his shoulders blocking Charles out.

Charles waited for something. Anything else. But nothing came except the eventual steady rise and fall of Erik’s breathing as he slipped into sleep. 

It was a long time before Charles joined him, the space between their bodies in the bed crackling with some kind of energy, too close and too far. Charles resolutely told himself that the thickness in his throat was relief, and not bitter disappointment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the kudos and comments so far!! Much appreciated--and I'll respond to the comments as soon as I can...until then, here's another chapter! Just a heads up, there is a bit of Shaw creepiness here...nothing explicit, but I always feel it's 'better safe then sorry' with warnings :)
> 
> Thanks again!!

The next morning he woke to sunshine and an empty bed. He remembered crawling out of sleep during the night to see that the candles had burned low, the fire in the hearth guttering. He remembered the heat of a body next to his own, his forehead tucked into the dip between Erik’s shoulder blades. He remembered his hand curled around the soft crook of Erik’s elbow and how, for a moment, he had he felt warm and safe.

And then Erik had gently tugged his arm away and rolled his body further to the edge of the bed, and Charles had been alone again.

He turned over slowly, breathing out a heavy sigh. Erik’s side of the bed was cold; Charles hadn’t even heard him wake or get up. The previous night’s awkwardness still hung heavy in his mind, but he comforted himself with the thought that today he might try to endear himself to his husband, and that maybe the next night would be met with something more like affection.

He resolved to set the lingering memory of the night before aside for the time being. 

***

After helping him dress in a stiff Westchestrian suit, the valets took time to show Charles the new clothes gifted from various Genoshan citizens, tailors and seamstresses and tanners all vying to have their wares worn by the new prince. Charles watched as Raven and Angel gushed, sharing a patient look with Moira who stood by his side with her arms crossed, her clothing as plain as it had been the day before.

The fine clothes that flowed through Raven and Angel’s fingers were reminiscent of his previous life as a decorous little doll. It was a memory he was more then willing to leave behind, though it did remind him of something he had meant to ask Erik, not realizing that his new husband would be trying so hard to avoid him. He decided to broach it with the valets.

“I was hoping to continue my studies,” he started, and Angel cut off her awestruck monologue about a very fine white fur cloak clutched in her hands, all three of them turning to look at him.

“You studies, Sir?”

“Yes, you know, I was just in the middle of a rather large text on coastal geography, something I imagine would be quite useful in a place like Genosha. I’m rather partial to the natural sciences, though obviously literature and history hold great weight at home.” He realized he was rambling, something Kurt had always hated, and cut himself off abruptly.  He watched as the valets traded a worried glance amongst themselves.

“Is something wrong?” He asked after a pregnant moment had passed.

“No—No,” Raven assured him, “It’s only – that’s something you should discuss with the Herzog, Sir.” 

Charles racked his brain, trying to remember the extensive political charts and Royal lineages of Genosha his mother had impressed upon him in the year leading up to his eighteenth birthday. There had been so many other interesting things to study, he hadn't paid much attention. He felt a small flicker of regret for that now.

“The Herzog?”

Moira nodded. “Sebastian Shaw.” At Charles continued blank expression she prompted, “the General of Genosha’s standing army?” Charles felt his expression widened in shock as he remembered the severe man standing at the King’s right hand. That man, that violent, militaristic man was in charge of his schooling? How? And why? 

“He’s Royal Counsel and second only to the King.” Raven said, “It’s his duty to look after the Prince until he takes the throne. He’ll look after you as well, Charles.”

Royal Counsel. He had no idea.

“Well then,” he said, holding out his arms for his jacket, “I guess first order of business is visiting the Herzog.” The rolled the new name uncomfortably around on his tongue. He was going to have to get used to it.

***

The corridors in the palace were long and winding, sometimes passing through arches exposed to the open air and light of day, sometimes creeping deep underground with only flickering sconces to light the way. Raven and Angel had parted from them, off to complete other assigned tasks, but Moira stuck with him, walking close enough for their arms to brush. 

“Not that I mind the company,” he said after a few moments, their footsteps echoing down the otherwise silent corridors, “but you don’t have to come with me.” He paused at a junction of hallways and Moira nudged him to the left. He cast her a rueful smile. “I would have found my way eventually.”

“I’m sure you would have,” she replied, her amusement evident in the words, “But I have to stay with you. Orders of the King.” He raised an eyebrow at her and she grinned openly. “I’m your bodyguard—did no one tell you?”

Moira spent the last length of their journey telling him about her training: her recruitment at the age of 14, her youth in combat training under private tutelage and in the Palace Guard where she trained alongside Erik, demanding to be included even though the Herzog had disapproved. He realized how little he new about Moira and Erik as well, and when Moira reddened slightly and apologized for going on he assured her it was alright. He was curious about Moira’s life and Genoshan customs, and if he was being honest with himself, was eager for any scrap of information about Erik as well.

Too soon they were standing in front of two steel doors, massive and imposing, flanked on either side by two large men in uniform, both of whom looked down on Charles with barely concealed distain.

“Prince Charles wishes to speak with the Herzog.” Moira said, staring them down despite her short stature.

“If he’s not too busy?” Charles asked when a moment passed and they refused to answer. The guards looked at each other and finally the one on the right opened the door and slipped inside. Moira spent the interim time glaring at the remaining guard who returned her gaze impassively, while Charles shifted from foot to foot, trying to order his words. He couldn’t seem to shake the involuntary fear the Herzog seemed to summon in him after hearing all the horror stories that made him famous back home.

Finally the other guard returned and informed him that the Herzog would deign to see him. Charles looked to Moira who waved him forward with a subtle gesture of her hand. He almost asked if she would come with him, but looking back at the guards and their expressions of condescension, decided against it.

Steeling himself, he strode forward through the heavy doors.

The room he found himself in was elegant and lavish, but cold; clean surfaces and muted grey, none of the rich textured warmth of Charles quarters, or the colour and light of the rest of the Palace. Sebastian Shaw was standing in front of the large stone hearth, cold embers at his feet, his hands folded behind his back. He was wearing the same black suit as before, covered now with a thick black fur cape, and he looked down his nose at Charles, his expression considering, but closed off. When Charles came to stand before him he offered a small formal bow of equals, which Charles returned, hesitantly, watching the small twitch at the corner of Shaw’s mouth threatening to turn into a smile.

“My Lord. To what do I owe the honor?” His voice was resonating and commanding, and immediately made Charles feel small. He drew himself up as tall as he could stretch and tried to steady his voice.

“I wanted to introduce myself, sir, as we didn’t have the opportunity yesterday.”

Shaw smirked. “I’m sure you had other matters on you mind last night.” The implication and innuendo was heavy in his tone, and Charles felt himself blush.

“Yes, well. I was told that you would be acting as a guide, or guardian, for me until Erik ascends the throne?”

The matter of Erik’s ascension was something complex and confusing that no one had really bothered to explain to Charles, but he did know that it was supposed to happen relatively soon after he was wed. Charles suddenly felt as though it couldn’t happen soon enough. He was entrusting his well being to this man, a stranger to him, a man who had killed countless of his countrymen before his father signed the peace treaty with Genosha. His longed-for autonomy seemed to remain frustratingly out of reach.

“That’s correct,” Shaw said evenly. Charles twisted his hands together behind his back, hoping that Shaw wouldn’t notice.

“Then I was hoping to discuss my studies, if you have a moment.”

Shaw was suddenly cold. “Your studies?"  

Charles began to tell him about his tutors in Westchester and what he had been learning prior to his move, but Sebastian cut him off after a few moments of tentative rambling.

“Charles.” Charles swallowed and pressed his lips together, trying to stop himself from saying something stupid. He watched as Sebastian’s gaze flickered to his closed mouth, before a slick, appeasing expression slid over his face. Secretly, Charles shuddered at the visible change.

“I don’t think we need to worry about things like that anymore, do we?” He sounded false and placating, something sweet dripped over something lethal, and sharp. When he reached out a hand to cup Charles’ chin in his callused, warrior’s fingers, Charles forced himself not to pull away. “Your duty is to your husband. Let’s focus on that now, shall we?”

Charles felt himself nodding, understood that Shaw was saying something else, but felt frozen and numb, a dim ringing in his ears.

When Shaw bowed to him, Charles took that as his cue to leave and turned on his heel, heading back out into the corridor where Moira was waiting for him. She said something to him, but he couldn’t hear her over the constant buzzing of Shaw’s words repeating over and over in his head, the feeling of his fingers on his face and the realization that any freedom that he thought he might have was actually an illusion.

Between Erik who seemed to want nothing to do with him and Shaw who wanted him to do nothing, he was more trapped and more alone then he had ever been before. 

***

He wandered for a while trying to sort out his panicked thoughts, and came to the conclusion that he would continue his studies, even if it meant smuggling books to his room and reading them in secret. He was not about to let Sebastian Shaw dictate his life, even if the man was second only to the King.

By the time the sun was setting over the distant blue horizon he had calmed himself somewhat and able to attend a final stilted dinner with his parents before they departed for Westchester the next morning. They were as cold and distant as always, but it was so familiar it was almost a comfort. He sat next to Erik along one side of the table, who greeted him with a short nod and almost no conversation despite the fact that they had not seen each other for the entire day.

He softly answered Jakob’s questions when they were posed to him, aware of his mother’s disapproving air across the table the entire time. She had always disliked the sound of her son’s voice. Jakob seemed to understand Charles’ reticence after a while, and the rest of dinner passed in relative silence and the delicate clinking of silver on gold plated china.

He bowed to his parents at the end of the meal, and received a courtly kiss from his mother that barely brushed his cheek. He thought that maybe he should be sad to see them go, but they had been absent for so long that their leaving was like a minor weight off his heart, like the uncurling of a cold fist in his chest.

He followed Erik back to their suite in silence, truly alone now and cut off from any remnant of home. Before Erik could escape to his private quarters, Charles quickly looked around, desperate for anything that might keep Erik with him for a little longer. He spotted a wooden board topped with small, carved figures on the table in front of the fireplace.

“Do you play?” He asked, louder then he intended, and Erik visibly startled as he turned from the door, his hand already on the handle.

“Yes, but I have other matters to attend to.”

Charles decided that was probably for the best. It was a stupid thing to ask because he didn’t recognize the game, and certainly didn’t understand how to play it.  

“Don’t wait up for me,” Erik said sternly, and Charles nodded and watched him go. Instead of heading to bed he retired to his own sitting room where his valets eventually joined him, their voices and laughter momentarily drawing him from a rapidly descending melancholy.


	4. Chapter 4

The second night Charles tried as hard as he could to stay awake and wait up for Erik so that they might talk, but he couldn’t manage even that. His eyes grew heavy in the dim light, and without any of his books to keep him company his mind eventually drifted away. He thought he heard Erik come in and distantly felt the bed dip under his weight as he climbed underneath the covers. There was a pause and he felt a slight puff of air across his forehead before the lamp next to the bed was extinguished and Charles slipped off into oblivion again.

His days continued in much the same way. Charles explored the palace while the sun circled the sky, finding all of the secret hidden rooms and passageways, all the dark corners and spiraling towers to the sky, Moira a constant, bemused presence at his side. The palace staff were confused by his company at first, but soon warmed to him in a way he had never really been able to endear himself to the staff at Westchester no matter how hard he had tried 

One of the better days was when he inadvertently wandered into the kitchens. Everything stopped, all the cooks and scullions and serving girls turning to look at him before one tentative boy with wild red hair approached him and asked if he needed something. Charles had smiled at them all and said no, and asked if it was alright to visit. Slowly, like a machine grinding into motion, they eased back into their routine, working around him. 

The red haired boy was an apprentice chef named Sean who grinned at him, and in a gesture that was delightfully overly familiar, took him by the elbow and pulled him over to a stool by the massive hearth that dominated one wall of the kitchen. He had been given a roll of sweet, sticky bread and settled in, Moira leaning against the wall behind him twirling one of her many hidden daggers effortlessly through her fingers. The kitchen was bustling with activity, and practically thrumming with life.

Sean flitted from table to table, observing and correcting, making people laugh, and when he raised his surprisingly beautiful tenor voice in song, it was impossible not to join in. Charles watched as they joked and shouted, noisy and chaotic and ridiculous and felt as though radiant joy and warmth was bursting from the seams of the fire warmed brown stone walls. Suddenly the palace felt a little bit like home.

Not all days were full of happiness and wonder. He still had not found a library, or rooms with books or scrolls of any kind. He was beginning to despair that the palace had any tools of learning on its grounds, and he wondered how he might begin to venture out to observe the city. He was not sure how much freedom he was allowed, especially with Shaw observing him at dinner with his shrewd eyes. Raven assured him in hushed conspiratorial tones that he had spies in the castle everywhere.

Days where he was left wanting made his nights even worse. His attempts at conversation with Erik were stilted and curt, not because of any cruelty on Erik’s part, but more because of the awkwardness that still lingered between them. Erik disappeared in the morning before Charles woke and was gone the remainder of the day, and Charles worried that they would never find time to heal their estrangement from one another. 

At dinner they ate with Jakob and Shaw, and conversation floated between the food, politics, and matters of state. Charles listened intently, trying to wade his way into the complex web of Genoshan government and policy, but no one took the time to explain anything to him in detail, and so he floundered. 

When they were alone Erik retired to his private rooms where Charles could not follow, and if Charles was still awake when he came to bed, he extinguished the light with a low, “Goodnight,” and turned away from Charles in the dark.

Charles had attempted to initiate some kind of intimacy every night within the first few hushed breaths as they lay next to each other, tried sliding in behind Erik, close enough to feel his body heat through the thin white cloth of their shirts, tried hesitantly touching his feet against Erik’s ankles, or brushing his fingertips against the sharp points of Erik’s spine, the strong round curve of his shoulder, but Erik remained resolutely still and closed off to him.

Charles continued to try, just briefly, every night, hoping that maybe one night Erik might change his mind. He didn’t know what he was doing wrong, but was certain there was something undesirable about him, his body, or maybe his character. He knew he must not be what Erik wanted, but Erik was so much more then he had ever dreamed. He saw Erik interact with others, with his own valets or the guards around the castle, and he smiled and teased with a cutting, wicked humor. He had a brilliant mind, evident when he spoke politics and policy with his father, and showed kindness to those who served him. There was something about Erik, something beautiful, and it drew Charles in despite himself.

And so when Erik rebuffed him in the private darkness of their bedroom, it hurt a little more each time. He would turn away, his body yearning and aching in a way he had never experienced, would swallow down the sharp pain that pulsed in his throat, would fold his knees in and clasp his hands together, pressing them against his chest as though he was holding all the broken pieces of himself together. The space between their bodies seemed endless, interminable, and Charles felt the void like a presence at his back until dreamless sleep took him.

A few weeks after his arrival, he woke to find Erik gone, as per usual. The sun was barely up and he felt lazy and sluggish, shamed that Erik somehow managed get up before him again. He wallowed for a moment before resolutely climbing out of bed. He couldn't let the failure of the previous night deter him. It was a new day, it was beautiful, and he decided that today was the day he would venture outside.

He had never been allowed to enjoy the outdoors much in Westchester, beaten down with the constant fear of illness or worse, dirt. He had been thrilled to learn that most people in Genosha made their living outside, thriving and celebrating the air and sea and sun.

He told Moira of his plans and she agreed readily enough, though Raven wrapped him in a dark, heavy, fur lined coat and Angel nearly strangled him with a soft wool scarf of deep blue before allowing him through the door. Moira led him down a spiral staircase whose entrance was hidden the far corner of his room and exited onto an expanse of soft green grass that seemed to run endlessly out into the ocean. The Palace was built on a rocky outcropping, a castle set in stone that tumbled down to the sea below. He could hear and smell the water beyond the cliff’s edge, and could barely keep himself from running.

They wandered for a while, climbing down a worn pathway to the rocky beach. Charles pulled his coat tighter around his body as the waves crashed down before him, huge and loud, the spray of water dancing across his cheeks as the wind swept off the water. They walked along the sand, watching the boats move to and fro as fisherman hauled in their nets and cast lines. He bent to collect rainbow patterned shells, ran his fingers over smooth stones and kept a handful in his pocket to Moira’s amusement. He counted them slowly as they sat on driftwood and watched the water move, untamed and breathing and alive.

Eventually they moved on, walking along the beach and up a winding, rickety staircase of sandy wood. When they arrived back on the groomed palace grounds, Charles saw a sprawling stable connected to the palace by a straight path of cobblestone. He turned excited eyes on Moira who laughed and gestured at him to go, following in his wake as he sped across the lawn as quickly as he was able while still maintaining some semblance of dignity.

The stables had always been a place of interest and attraction to Charles, but he had never been allowed to enter its hallowed walls. He had been taught to ride yes, had mastered it as a child and had the polished riding boots and crop to prove it. But he was never allowed to linger with the horses, to take care of them, to dirty his hands with their maintenance.

The stable doors were thrown open to let in the cool breeze of the day. He hesitated in front of them, breathing in the earthy smell of dirt and hay and leather, debating on whether he should enter - whether he would even be allowed to enter.

 “Can I help you?”

He startled and turned to look at the man emerging from around the corner of the stable, wiping his hands on a faded, torn rag. He was tall and broad in the shoulders, brawnier than Erik and rougher around the edges. His hair was wild and his white linen shirt was a patchwork of poorly mended tears, sweat stains and questionable spots of dirt. He eyed Charles from under his heavy brows and shoved the rag in his back pocket, pulling a cigar from behind his ear and tucking the worn end into his mouth.

“Don’t you think lighting that in here is a bad idea?” Moira asked. The man looked at the hale bales piled next to him, and then over Charles’ shoulder at her, a slow smile pulling at his mouth.

“Does it look like I’m lighting it, sweetheart?” Charles could almost hear the muscles in Moira’s body tensing, and he put out a hand without thinking, catching her arm as she strode forward. She huffed a frustrated breath and backed down, and the man’s smile grew wider.

Moira scowled at him in response and Charles squeezed her wrist in solidarity as the man chewed on his cigar and looked Charles over.

“So you’re the new prince, huh?” He extended a massive hand. “Logan Howlett, Horse Master.”

Charles shook his hand with enthusiasm, trying to ignore how small and pale and smooth his hand looked in comparison with Logan’s rough callused palm. Logan looked surprised, but pleased, and conceded Charles’ ‘pleased to meet you’ with a nod of his head. The Horse Master at Westchester had been a stony, brutal man of razor sharp authority. Logan seemed refreshingly the opposite.

“Was there something you needed?” he asked, and Charles realized he was still shaking Logan’s hand. He let go with a flush of embarrassment and clasped his hands together.

 “I was hoping you might show me around? If it’s not too much trouble?”

 Logan raised an eyebrow and looked him up and down.

“You might ruin your fine clothes, Sir.” The title was added somewhat mockingly and it surprised a laugh out of Charles, though he felt Moira tense at his side.

“I’m counting on it.”

***

It wasn’t until the sky began to turn pink with the oncoming twilight that he realized how long he had lingered in the stables. True to Logan’s word, he was completely filthy and happier than he’d been in a long time. He had followed Logan around as the man gruffly gestured to the different horses, each with their own name, each with their own quirks and personality, all of them leaning out of their stalls to greet him. Logan sensed his hesitance and showed him how to rub their velvet noses and hold his hand out flat so they could snatch pieces of apple and sugar from his palm. Charles was unable to hide his delight at their wet lips and teeth against his palm, his laugher echoing loudly down the corridor amidst the filtered beams of sunlight.

There were other stable hands that wandered through, and Charles caught one young groom by surprise when he came upon Charles gleefully mucking out a stall, covered up to his knees and elbows in horse manure and muddy clumps of hay. The boy had stumbled and stuttered, and tried to take the shovel from Charles, but Logan had come and gently led him away to other duties while Charles went back to his work, ignoring Moira’s smile and the slow shake of her head.

At the end of the day he sat cross legged on the ground and slowly worked oil into a saddle, polishing the leather until it was supple and shining. Logan watched him work from where he was leaning against the wall, finally smoking the cigar he had chewed on but pointedly never lit.

Moira was perched on a barrel next to him, slowly carving a design into the wood in between her knees and ignoring Logan’s pointed commentary on her artistic skills. Charles couldn’t stop laughing, something in his chest loose and rattling and escaping out his mouth, making him feel light and calm, centered and present in the weight of the late afternoon breeze. He wished he could have more days like this one.

There was a sudden sound of horses, and Logan straightened from his sprawl at the same time as Moira jumped off the barrel, standing next to the Horse Master at attention. At their reaction, Charles didn’t need to guess who was behind him, but he wasn’t quite done with the saddle yet so he continued to polish.

“You show such disrespect for your betters, boy?” a voice called to him from above. It was familiar but sharper, crueler than he’d ever heard before, with none of the sweet, cloying honey shaping the vowels. Charles raised a humored eyebrow at Moira, but her face was stony and all of the lightness of the day was gone from her expression.

“Stand up and address me properly before I whip you for your insolence!” Charles could hear the anger in his voice, untempered and pure, and he thought,  _there’s the violence I’ve heard so much about_.

He set down the rag and stood, turning to face Sebastian Shaw who was seated on top of a massive black charger. When he saw Charles’ face, his thunderous frown was replaced with a look of pure shock, but no one looked more surprised then Erik who was sitting on a tall grey horse a few paces behind him.

“Charles?” he asked, incredulous, and Charles felt a pang when he realized that Erik had not spoken his name in days. “What are you doing?”

Charles was suddenly painfully aware of the state of his clothes, the disarray of his hair, his face and hands streaked in oil and dirt and sweat. He tried to straighten to his full height, as minimal as it was, and lifted his chin.

“Logan was kind enough to show me around the stables.” Shaw’s expression of scorn showed exactly what he thought of that, but Charles only had eyes for Erik, whose gaze shifted over to Logan. There was a long pause where an unreadable emotion filtered over his face, and then he bowed his head towards him.

“Horse Master, you have my thanks.”

Logan bowed in return, the movement stilted and awkward on his body while it had been nothing but graceful in Erik’s, even seated atop a horse.

“It was my honor, Sir. His majesty is…very keen.” Charles glanced back and caught the smile as he said it, and felt some of the warmth from before returning. When he looked back to Erik, he didn’t seem to share the humor, his expression a blank mask once again. He dismounted in a smooth movement, collecting the reigns in one hand and urging his horse forward.

Charles stepped toward him, and held out his hand tentatively.

“May I?” Erik looked at him, surprised. “I’d like to show you what I’ve learned.” Erik looked at the reigns in his grasp and then at Charles’ outstretched hand, opened his mouth to reply when a hand on Charles’ shoulder interrupted them.

“I believe it’s time for supper, isn’t it?” It was Shaw, and there was that honey sweet voice again. Now Charles could see the menace behind it, could see it for the paper-thin mask that it was. He looked at Shaw with apprehension and realized he didn’t really know what this man was capable of. “I’m sure you’ll want to get washed up before you see the King.”

Charles nodded, reluctantly, and Shaw clapped him hard on the shoulder before he strode away, guards falling in and flanking him on either side. Erik handed his reigns over to Logan who stood close by, holding Shaw’s horse by the bridal. He turned to leave and then paused, twisting to look at Charles,

“Maybe next time?”

Charles felt something flare up inside him, and pressed his lips together to hold himself back from blurting something stupid. He nodded instead, and Erik bowed to him once before turning and striding away.

Moira materialized next to him, gently taking him by the elbow and propelling him toward the pathway leading back to the palace. He turned and shouted his thanks back to Logan who was leading the two horses into the stable, the fading light cutting his outline against a deep red sky.

“Anytime kid,” he shouted back, “Anytime.”

***

He thought that maybe something had shifted between him and Erik in that moment at the stables, as small and seemingly insignificant as it might have appeared to an outside observer. That night when he breathed out Erik’s name, when he slowly pressed himself to Erik’s body, half drowsing, half full of thrumming tension, every inch of skin vibrating with a strange kind of emotion, there was a moment when Erik shifted, when his body curved inwards and he released a shaky breath, deafening in the stillness of the room, cutting into air thick with anticipation. But in the end, Erik still pulled away.

“Goodnight Charles.”

Charles thought he might cry with frustration and longing, and the loneliness of rejection. And he asked himself, how many times would he continue to reach out, if Erik was never there to reach back?

***

The morning after, Charles remained in bed for a long time, blankets curled in his arms, staring out onto the balcony lost in thought. He stayed for so long that the valets eventually came in of their own volition to see if he was ill. They seemed to catch his mood, and so were quieter as they pulled him up and into the bath, tender in their movements as they dressed him and combed out his hair. It was soothing and comforting, but didn't ease the lingering cloud over his mind.

He was still quiet and introspective at dinner, and the King must have sensed his mood given that he stood and beckoned him as soon as their plates were cleared.

“Come with me Charles.”

Charles glanced at Erik who returned his look of surprise. He quickly got to his feet and followed the king as he swept out of the room, ignoring the narrowing of Shaw’s gaze and whatever darkness was creeping in there. The king had never asked to speak to Charles alone and he bit down a sliver of fear that told him he might have done something wrong, whispered that he was chasing down his punishment as he hurried to keep up.

Jakob turned the corner and stopped at a large set of double doors, flanked on either side by two men dressed in the red robes signifying the Royal Guard. They were as tall and imposing as Shaw’s men, though one of them tossed Charles a smile as he held the door open for the King. Charles recognized him as Armando, Moira’s sparring partner, and Charles felt his nerves ease enough to smile back.

He found himself in a salon similar to his own sitting room, though somewhat larger and more opulent. The King surprised him by immediately taking his crown off and throwing it somewhat carelessly onto a low table. Kurt had not once removed his Crown in Charles’ presence.

He saw Charles watching him and smiled.

“Heavy is the head that wears the Crown—isn’t that what they say?” Charles returned the smile somewhat tentatively and nodded. Jakob watched him for a moment, a look of contemplation on his face.

“You’re not happy here, are you Charles?”

Charles gaped for a moment. “No! No sir, I am very happy! Everyone has been so kind.” It was true; Charles was happier here than he had ever been at Westchester. Suddenly the melancholy that had persisted since the morning seemed silly and foolish, and he was ashamed. Maybe that was what Erik saw in him—a spoiled little boy who pouted when he did not get his way.

Jakob seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts and gently asked,

“But maybe you could be happier?” Charles floundered about for something to say, something that would express his gratitude for the King’s hospitality, for the kindness he had been shown, but before he could get the words out, the King beckoned at him again.

“Follow me.”

He lifted a lantern down from its hook and led Charles through another doorway, down a narrow passage that concluded at a small wooden door. Reaching down into the neck of his tunic, he pulled out a large brass key looped through a length of gold chain and slowly raised it over his head, fitting the key into the door handle. He hesitated for a moment, his heavy exhalation loud in the tight stone hallway. Charles heard the lock click as he turned the key and watched closely, his curiosity taking hold as the King turned the door handle and finally pushed the door open decisively.

He turned to Charles and gestured him inside, and even before the King entered with the lantern, Charles knew what this room was. He could smell it: old paper, leather and ink, vellum and pounce and somehow, always dry tea leaves, warm and comforting and so familiar. And when the King lit the sconces along the wall he saw it confirmed. Books. Shelves and shelves of books along the walls of a large round room, the domed ceiling open to the sky through panes of clear glass. He imagined that in daylight it must look like a small corner of heaven.

There was a large fireplace along one wall surrounded by low couches and a large sunken chair, worn and comfortable looking, the perfect place to curl up and read and dream impossible things. Charles felt something in him break and for a horrifying moment he thought he might cry.

He turned back to the King who was watching him, an expression of unmistakable fondness on his face.

“I thought you might like it,” he said, and Charles could only nod, had to clench his fists to keep from reaching out and pulling something, anything down from the shelves, the urge to consume new knowledge almost undeniable.

“This was a place of refuge for my wife,” he continued. His words caught Charles completely off guard. Neither Jakob, nor Erik ever talked about the Queen and Charles caught the sense that the subject was generally understood as forbidden.

The King trailed his fingertips along the books,

“She loved to read. I haven’t been in here since…” He looked at Charles, as though remembering who he was with, and shook himself.

“I’d like for you to use this room whenever you like. There’s a door just there,” and he pointed to another door, tucked in between two bookcases, “that exits to another hallway. If you follow it, you’ll find yourself close to your rooms. She liked to be close to Erik.” He smiled at Charles, and it was full of affection. “In many ways, you remind me of her.” He held his hand out and dangling from his fingers was the gold chain and the key. “Please Charles, I want you to have it.”

Charles was shocked and at a loss for words, but he swallowed, and nodded and gingerly took the key from the King’s weathered hand.

“Thank you, sir. It means a great deal to me.” To his embarrassment he felt tears welling in his eyes, but when he glanced at the King, he saw his expression soften further.

“Erik is a good man, but he has not had an easy life. He’ll come around Charles, I promise. Just give him some time.” Charles nodded and the King, satisfied, bid him goodnight and left him alone amidst the books and the musty air of a room that had been closed off for years.

Charles thought about the King’s words that night as he lay in bed, twisting the gold chain around his fingers, thought about the mysterious Queen no one talked about, and the pile of books he had brought to his sitting room to devour the next day.

He thought about what Jakob had said about Erik and listened to the now familiar sound of Erik’s breathing, deep and slow, signaling that he was heavy with sleep. He hoped, desperately, that what the King said was true, and as he faded into sleep his last thought was of what it might be like falling asleep with Erik’s arms around him, his body heavy and warm at his back, keeping him safe and contained.

It was a nice thought, and he fell asleep with a smile on his face.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day he cloistered himself in his sitting room, unwilling to leave for one moment, not to eat or get fresh air, or further explore the castle. He sat on the floor and opened book after book and devoured every word, relished the feeling of old paper on his fingertips, ran his fingers along cracked spines and smudged ink, pushing the loose sleeves of his robe up to his elbows and out of the way of his insatiable excitement.

Moira was entirely bored, and vocal about it. She moved eventually from her rigid station by the door and sprawled on one of his low couches, one leg thrown over the back, the other stretched out over the arm. Raven and Angel popped in and out when their duties would allow, and unlike Moira seemed thrilled by the scattered books, though Raven quickly lost interest when she discovered how many of them were full of science and history. 

“Don’t you like art? Or poetry?” She asked at the end of the day, holding a book on organic chemistry away from her body between two pinched fingers as though it were diseased. He reached over the scattered remains of his dinner tray and snatched it away from her.

“Yes, of course. But science is fascinating too, Raven. Did you know that a scientist in Genosha has discovered a particular seaweed off the north shore with medicinal properties?”

Raven groaned and flopped over, covering her ears.

Despite their dramatics, the valets lingered as long as they could, flipping through the books, chattering excitedly about the images scrawled over the hard covers and down the margins. Charles watched them, watched their eyes and hands skim over the words and realized, with astonishment, that neither of them could read. They lingered over anatomical drawings of sea creatures, or elaborate family crests, but didn’t pause to read any of the pages, Angel’s forehead screwed in concentration as her mouth soundlessly parsed the incomprehensible words.

He didn’t know what to say. He genuinely couldn’t remember a time when he couldn’t read, when he didn’t have books at hand. They had been his friends and confidants and so often, his only company. Life without them seemed bleak and stunted, though maybe if he had friends like Moira and the valets, or Logan and Sean, he might not have needed them so much as a child. 

He shook himself from his thoughts when Raven sighed and lay down on the carpet, clutching a book on marine biology to her chest.

“You should get some poetry. My mother used to read poems to me when I was little.”

He looked down at her, at the halo of her long blond hair spread out next to him, and smiled.

“She doesn’t anymore?” She looked suddenly uncomfortable, and he regretted his question with the sudden understanding that the tension in the room, in Raven, was leading to a difficult answer.

“She died a few years back.” She looked embarrassed and Charles wanted to hit himself for being so tactless. “I never learned to read, and I could never really remember them from memory like she could.”

He wanted to say,  _I’m sorry;_  sorry for the loss of her mother and of the poems of her childhood. He wondered what it might have been like to have a mother that cared enough to read to him. He wanted to say sorry for being so stupid and so socially inept.

Instead he clambered to his feet and said, “Wait here,” before scurrying out of the room. He pulled the key from around his neck and unlocked the door to his own private passageway, raced down the dark hallway to the library, warm and shadowed in the low light of dusk still creeping in through the windows.

It was just enough light to see the shelves, to drag a wooden stool over cursing his height, and scanning the row of books to pull down a thick, weathered volume he had spied the night before on his way out, his arms already full of books.

He rushed back, and when he arrived at his room, the valets were on their feet.

“Charles, you can’t run off like that—“ Moira said sternly, while at the same time Raven blurted, “I’m sorry Charles, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—“ He waved them both off, gesturing at everyone to settle back to the floor.

A moment passed while Charles caught his breath and second-guessed himself.

“Raven,” he said finally, tentatively watching the expression on her face, “Would you like to hear some poetry again?” There was a moment when she stiffened, her face shifting uncomfortably, and he wanted to sink through the floor. But the moment passed, and eventually her eyes lit up and she looked at Charles with something like hesitant happiness, and hope.

“If…if you wouldn’t mind?” He smiled gratefully at her, feeling his heart swell momentarily with relief that he hadn’t ruined this, hadn’t clumsily lost a friend with his foolish words. He opened the book in his lap,  _Poems of Genosha_  inscribed in gold letters along the spine, and chose a poem at random. 

Later, when his voice had grown hoarse, the round vowels of his Westchester accent still reverberated through the room. The girls, including Moira, had grown contemplative and quiet, lying on the floor with him, staring at the fire Angel had eventually built up, the snap-crack of logs background music to the flow of words drawn out of the book in his hands.

Genoshan poetry was lush and beautiful, rooted in nature and human emotion, spartan words that tugged and tore at something within his chest, and made him think about a breadth of emotion he had yet to experience. 

The poem he was currently reading was digging into him, reinforcing the already thick pulse of his heartbeat in his throat until he could barely speak the words aloud. Not every poem in the book was about love, but this one, this one seemed to ache with a kind of longing Charles was becoming all too familiar with, the words framing his own thoughts and feelings better then he would ever be able to on his own.

_You know how this is:_

_if I look_

_at the crystal moon, at the red branch_

_of the slow autumn at my window,_

_if I touch_

_near the fire_

_the impalpable ash_

_or the wrinkled body of the log,_

_everything carries me to you,_

_as if everything that exists,_

_aromas, light, metals,_

_were little boats_

_that sail_

_toward those isles of yours that wait for me._

 

He paused to turn the page, and a sudden thump from across the room seemed to shatter the penetrating silence, causing all four of them to jump.

Moira was at his side in an instant, her dagger drawn, her body crouched defensively in front of his. Charles peered around her to see Erik standing in the open door leading into their bedroom, careful not to cross into over into Charles’ private space.

There was a flicker of emotion on his face, there and gone in an instant, but for a moment Charles saw him stripped bare—open and raw, like a wound ripped apart and exposed to the air. It happened so quickly he thought he might have imagined it, and Erik swiftly assumed the rigid, formal posture he always wore when addressing Charles.

“I’m sorry to have interrupted,” he said, and Moira eased back, bowing in apology while Raven and Angel jumped to their feet and dropped a hasty curtsey.

Finally Charles found his voice. “That’s alright—did you need something?” Erik shifted, and Charles knew him well enough by now that he could see the awkwardness in the movement, like Erik was itching to escape.

“You weren’t at dinner,” he said finally, and there was something in his tone, something pained. Charles took pity on him.

“My apologies, I was distracted. But I’m done here if you needed—“

“No—No.” Erik cut him off, and the tension in the room was so high, so intense that Charles felt himself wallowing deeper in despair, all the joy of the day forgotten in the recollection of his awkward, stilted marriage.

“Just, carry on.” Erik bowed to them and swiftly escaped the doorway, shutting the door behind him with a resounding snap.

There was a moment of silence, and Charles could feel the eyes of the others on him, curious and sympathetic and worried.

“I hadn’t realized—“ Raven began, but cut off when Moira swept a vicious look in her direction. She swallowed and tried again,

“It’s just, I’ve never seen him so…unsure.” There was silence in the room, contemplative and smothering. Charles looked down at his lap, at the book he had dropped when he had been startled. It had fallen open to the very last page and written there on the creamy white paper was an inscription, the letters beautifully shaped and arching across the page:

_For Erik,_

_Beautiful words for my beautiful boy._

_Love Mama._  

Something clenched hard inside his chest, and for the first time since he married the man, he thought he might understand something about his husband.

***

Charles lingered in the sitting room for a while longer, reading aloud, though not from the book Erik’s mother had left for him. The fire burned low and Angel dozed with her head in Raven’s lap, Raven’s fingers running slowly and methodically through her hair, her eyes far away and golden in the subdued light. He could hear Erik moving around in the bedroom, the muted sounds of his footsteps, the comforting murmur of his movements as he prepared for bed.

Eventually Charles bid the girls goodnight. Raven gently prodded Angel into waking and they stumbled blearily out of the room as Moira squeezed his arm in parting and promised to see him in the morning.

He felt unaccountably nervous heading into the bedroom and took a deep breath before entering, pulling the sides of his robe closer around his body. When he opened the door Erik looked toward him, visibly startled by the sudden noise.

He was wearing only his loose white shirt and had one knee up on the bed, paused mid-motion while climbing up on the platform. The hem of the shirt had slid up his thigh and Charles could clearly see the curve of his backside, muscles pulled taught with the bending of his knee, skin pale and untouched by the sun. Charles felt a visceral tightening of his entire body, his blood rushing in his ears, his stomach clenching, knees weakening.

He thought that maybe after weeks of rejection, of cool disregard both in and out of bed, he could stop his childish reaction to Erik, but it seemed that with every day that passed, his attraction, to Erik’s body and mind both, seemed to grow stronger, a fluttery, progressive twisting that churned his insides.

He forced himself to swallow, hands sweating and clenching tighter on his robe where his arms were crossed tightly against his chest. Pleading with his body to obey, to hold off from embarrassing him for one minute, he got his feet into motion and crossed to the bed where Erik had started moving again, fiddling with the sheets, pulling them back, leaning over to blow out a dripping candle.

Charles stood across from him, the massive bed separating them with miles and miles of clean, smooth blankets. One of the valets had laid a fur across the foot of the bed in deference to the steadily cooling weather, summer moving swiftly into fall, the trees tumbling into flame and lit up with red and yellow leaves. He uncrossed his arms and reached out to it, pulling it up the bed and running his hands over the soft pelt, watching his fingers trail over fur the colour of honey.

When he looked up again, he saw that Erik was watching him. A few weeks ago, Charles might have thought his expression was blank and disapproving. Now he thought he saw humour in the twist of his mouth, fondness in the quirk of his eyebrow.

Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

In any case, it encouraged him to clear his throat and muster up his courage to say what had been on his mind since Erik had interrupted him earlier in the night.

“I’m sorry.”

Erik looked surprised for a moment, but smoothed his expression out once more, tilting his head to the side, questioning.

“I didn’t know,” Charles continued, trying to sort out his words, as tangled as they were in his brain and in his mouth. “I didn’t realize that it was your mother’s book.”

Immediately he realized that he had said the wrong thing, yet again. Erik’s face froze and whatever fondness had been there before retreated back behind his perpetual mask.

“All the books in the library belonged to my mother.” His voice was hard, cold, and he looked away from Charles, busied himself again with arranging the pillows at the head of the bed.

“Well, that it was a book she had meant for you.” Erik’s faux casual movements halted abruptly, and Charles felt something plummet in his chest, registered briefly that it might be his heart. Erik’s eyes snapped to him, and he felt himself recoil at the intensity and anger he saw there.

“What do you know about my mother?” The words were flat, not shouted or whispered menacingly, and all the worse for their disguised sentiment.

“I—“

“Nothing.” He snapped, cutting off whatever apology Charles was hastily summoning up. “You know nothing about my mother.” Now Charles could hear the hidden emotion, the awful, poisonous venom dripping off every syllable. “You are a silly little boy who knows nothing and who touches things that don’t belong to you.”

Charles was aware that his mouth was gaping open, and distantly he struggled to find something to say, some rebuttal, but his mind was heavy with fog. He heard himself mumble something about King Jakob, felt himself flinch when Erik sneered at him.

“Yes, I’m sure you think you are entitled to whatever you want, but that doesn’t mean you know a damn thing about my family.”

He threw back the sheets with a sharp aggressive gesture and laid down, his back to Charles, his entire body rigid with anger.

Charles felt sick, weak with a kind of sorrow he was becoming far too accustomed to. He looked at Erik in the low candlelight, looked at the gorgeous lines of his back and shoulders and the severity of his anger painted in the tension of his spine. Erik was supposed to love him, had made a vow to him, and yet somehow Charles only inspired hate in Erik’s heart. He couldn’t bring himself to get into bed, to lie down next to the man who refused to touch him or offer him a breadcrumb of kindness. He gently set the fur on the bed, arranging it so that Erik could wrap himself up if he got cold in the night, before turning and leaving the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

***

His sitting room had grown cold, the ashes smouldering in the hearth where he had doused the fire earlier. He stood and looked at the dark void where the fire had been and realized that he must have extinguished it only a handful of moments ago. It felt like more time had passed. He felt worn out, exhausted physically and emotionally, stepped on and beaten up before the hearth even had time to cool.

There were no blankets in the sitting room, only a few small decorative throws, and no more firewood until morning. Charles didn’t have the heart to track someone down to help him find more, not when everyone must be sleeping by now. He pulled his robe closer to his body and wrapped one of the thin silk blankets across his shoulders. The room felt large and looming, ceiling and walls farther away than before, alien and forbidding in a way he hadn’t yet experienced.

He curled up on a low couch, huddled his arms close to his chest to try and keep some of his body heat in. He was so sad, he realized suddenly, so lonely and so sad, and truly forlorn for the first time since he arrived in Genosha. He hadn’t realized he had been holding out such hope for Erik, hope that the tentative truce they had established would blossom into something more, hope that Erik might one day look at him in the way Charles always looked at Erik, might reach across the divide and draw Charles close in the night.

It looked now like that would never happen. As Charles drifted off to sleep he felt that hope flicker out, fade into nothing, and tried to ignore the stubborn tears cooling on his cheeks.

***

Moira found him in the morning and shook him gently awake, her expression confused when he saw her face through blurry eyes and in the dim light of dawn.

“What are you doing out here? Were you reading?” He sat up slowly, his body stiff and sore from the relentless shivering, the shifting in and out of sleep throughout the night.

“I couldn’t sleep.” His voice was hoarse, and when he swallowed his throat felt swollen and raw. Moira’s face creased into a frown and she glanced over to the fireplace. Quickly enough she was chastising him for not getting someone to relight the fire, to get him more blankets, for not getting enough sleep. He listened to the gentle berating again when Raven and Angel arrived and felt his heart sink.

Erik was right, he realized. He was as lazy and selfish and entitled as Erik said he was. He couldn’t even take care of himself for a night without the aid of servants, couldn’t fend for himself even amidst all the luxury of Erik’s palace. He was little more than a worthless pet, not even aesthetically pleasing enough to be worthy of Erik, to latch onto his arm in public, to please him in bed.

He felt sick with self-loathing, and then overcome with frustration at his own self-pity. When Angel came to get him for his bath he gently shrugged her off, went to his wardrobe and pulled on the first pair of breeches and shirt he laid his hands on and stormed out of the room.

He could hear Raven called after him, pleading with him angrily to at least take a coat, could hear the sound of Moira’s footsteps behind him, but he didn’t stop, didn’t slow down until he was outside of the palace on the wide manicured lawn expanding outwards toward the water.

He hadn’t realized he wasn’t breathing until he stepped outside, until he felt the rain on his face and seeping through his shirt, soaking into his impractical felt boots. He took a moment, gasping for air until his body relaxed, Moira standing silently at his side, a look of concern on her face. He ignored her, and when he could breath freely again, strode off quickly toward the stables.

When he got there he was soaked to the bone, his hair plastered against his face, his throat more sore and inflamed then when he had woke up, his body shaking from the cold. He disregarded all of it, and pushed through the heavy doors, breathed in the wet heady scent of horses and cut grass and dirt.

He relished the look of surprise on Logan’s face, his arms full of a heavy saddle, muscles straining under the weight of it. The surprise didn’t last for long, however, and Charles realized in that moment why he had come here—the comfort of the barn, and the silent acceptance of the Horse Master who handed him a shovel and didn’t ask him any questions.

He went to work, Moira pacing outside of the stall he began to steadily clean out, her palpable worry making the horses anxious. Logan dragged her away for a moment and Charles could hear them talking in low, fierce whispers, barely audible over the sound of the rain coming down hard on the roof of the stable, and when Moira came back she seemed, if not calmed, at least resigned. She pulled up a crate of hoof picks and heavy grooming brushes and sat down, watching Charles with her steady focus.

Charles tried to ignore her, tried to ignore the swirling thoughts crammed into his mind, and focused instead on his breath, in and out, and the beating of his heart.

He had worked through three more stalls before the sound thundered in his ears and his breath grew shallow, and the entreating blackness on the edges of his vision clouded over as the ground rushed to meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem Charles reads in the Queen's book of poetry is an excerpt from the BEAUTIFUL work "If you forget me" by Pablo Neruda :)


	6. Interlude

Erik was falling in love with his husband. 

For most men or women forced into an arranged marriage, this would be considered fortunate. It would be encouraged and allowed to blossom and take root. Instead, Erik found himself stuffing the unwanted clench of emotions down further into his chest, burying it under years of engrained hatred, drawing on the well worn disgust he had draped over himself for years like a familiar cloak.

In retrospect, he realized how foolish he had been. He had thought it would be easy to be cold. He knew what they were like in Westchester: beautiful, untouchable, like crystal and just as austere. A nation of snobbish, entitled, pompous dilettantes who had tried to take from Erik’s people again and again, and who had finally succeeded in taking that which mattered most.

Their Queen.

Erik had been certain he would never forgive them or their precious little prince, regardless of the treaty or his vow of marriage. He would not be making peace with his unforgivable fop of a husband, sure to be nothing more then an encapsulation of everything that was grotesque about his people. 

But it was Charles who had stepped so carefully out of that carved monstrosity of a carriage as though afraid of falling down. Charles, who had tentatively met Erik’s eyes and seemed so uncomfortable in his fine clothes, who shrunk under the disapproving eye of his shrewd mother, his bloodsucking father.

Charles, who hadn't sneered or turned his nose up at Genoshan customs but instead smiled and clapped along with the traditional music played in his honour at the wedding reception. Who was as beautiful as was to be expected but was also, shockingly, somehow unaware of it, nervous hands clenched into the covers, his shoulders hunched self consciously as he watched Erik enter their bedroom that first night.

Charles, who had wormed his way into the steady stream of life in Genosha. Who somehow, with his effortless smile and soft accented words, won over Moira, famous amongst the troops for her quick and vicious hands, and unwillingness to compromise. His intellect and good nature, painfully reminiscent of Erik’s mother, secured him a spot in the King’s good graces and the key to the library that the King had worn for so long it was nearly burned into his skin, kept close to a beating heart that had never quite healed.

It was incredible. The servants, the guards, even the gruff, embittered Horse Master had taken a shine to the young Prince. It seemed that no one was immune.

Indeed, not even Erik. He tried to ignore it at first, tried to remember the rules, the lessons of his youth, Shaw’s voice a constant mantra in his head. Tried to remember the vision of his mother that had haunted him as a child, that haunted him even now, her beautiful face stained in blood, her body broken, lying among mud and gore.

But despite his memories, despite what Shaw had suggested, he didn’t see any reason to be cruel to Charles, especially once he recognized how harmless he was, innocent and naive and more optimistic than anyone Erik had ever known. So he slept next to him, ate dinner with him in the evening, was aloof and at times cold to him, but never mean.

He couldn't have planned for Charles' soft smile as he bid Erik goodnight, the blue of his eyes dark and luminous in the candlelight of their bedroom. Or the way he looked in the morning, pliant and rumpled amidst the blankets, his hand curled close to his parted mouth, his chest rising slowly with each deep inhalation.

He hadn’t expected he would have to deal with Charles curled by the hearth with one of his mother’s books, heartbreaking in the low shadows cast by the fire, or hunched by the Chess board in the bedroom, musing over the pieces and inventing his own rules to the game after Erik rejected his request to teach him once again.

Charles covered in mud by the stables, proudly holding an oil covered rag. Charles at the dinner table, asking his father a remarkably insightful question. Charles laughing with his valets in his sitting room, or in the halls learning Erik’s lineage through the paintings on the wall, a wide eyed expression of delightful curiosity on his face.

Charles, Charles, Charles everywhere, underfoot, under the sheets, under the sun. Charles, beautiful, patient, kind, awkwardly endearing, shy and outspoken in turns, sometimes absently entitled but never demanding. Erik quickly realized how hard he was trying and found that instead of anger or spite at his sheltered upbringing, he only felt annoyingly protective of him.

Which was unfortunate when Charles was carried into their chambers by the Horse Master, clothes drenched, waves of hair dripping on the lush carpet of his sitting room, skin pale, lips blue, eyes closed. Barely breathing.

Erik had been reviewing the most recent census while Alex shuffled around, doing whatever it was valets did when they weren’t immediately needed. It had been a moment of quiet outside of the whirlwind tide of the day, when suddenly he heard commotion from Charles’ private quarters.

There was a babble of voices and when he recognized Moira’s sharp tones he was on his feet before he could think, was out the door, through the bedroom and breaking hundreds of years of tradition, stepping into Charles’ sitting room where he wasn’t allowed. He stood and watched from just inside the doorway as Logan pulled away from the grasping hands of the valets, his muscles straining under the weight of Charles in his arms, his body curled protectively over him as he lowered him to the couch.

Erik moved before he could think, something sick and heavy coiling low in his gut and causing his arms to lash out, gripping his Horse Master by the back of his sopping collar and hauling him away from Charles’ prone form. He was shouting something directly in the man’s face but wasn’t sure what words were being used, his mouth, his body moving quickly, everything else frozen in time. Distantly he was aware of the horrified looks on the valet’s faces, the curl of Logan’s mouth, of Moira’s sharp reprimand, but all of it was secondary to the shallow movements of Charles’ chest, and the memory of waking alone to a cold bed and feeling like pieces of himself were missing.

He felt hands grasping at him, the tight grip of slim fingers on one arm, Alex’s voice on the other side, pleading with him to let go, and he released Howlett with a shake. The man glowered at him and said in a voice tightly restrained and simmering with anger,

“I didn’t do anything to him, Sir.” The appellation was ground out, a thinly veiled cover for something fouler. Erik clenched his shaking hands, tried to reel in his panic and frantic fear from where it had spun away from him, leaving him frayed and out of control.

He never felt like this. He never lost control like this.

He remembered, vividly, the hurt expression on Charles’ face the night before, startled and broken like Erik had struck him physically. Erik had expected him to get into the bed anyways and had instead heard the door closing softly as Charles had left. And hadn’t come back.

He looked at Charles now, eyelids fluttering, pale and disoriented and confused, and wrestled with the sinking feeling that this was his fault. That he had pushed Charles too far and broken something between them.

He felt consumed with sudden shame.

He watched as Charles stirred as one of his valets murmured soothing words to him, stroked calming hands down his arms, down his face, pressing him back against the cushions as he tried to sit up, delirious. He watched her touching Charles with a familiarity he had never earned and he shut his eyes, felt the anger drain away leaving in its wake a painful exhaustion.

“Get out. All of you.”

“Erik, he needs a Doctor—“ Moira’s voice was firm, her anger poorly covering her worry.

“Then get out and get me a Doctor!”

When the room was empty, the sound of Charles’ shallow rasping breaths were barely audible above the relentless downpour of rain on the roof. He quickly moved to Charles’ side and, after hesitating for only a moment, reached out a hand to brush back a loose strand of hair curling across his forehead. Charles muttered and shifted uncomfortably and Erik saw how his body shook, listened to him moan softly, and felt his body twist in sympathy.

Gently, he slid his arms beneath Charles and lifted him from the couch. They had been married for months and this was the first time he had touched Charles intimately. Somehow it was easy and right, Charles’ body curled against his chest like a piece of Erik that had broken away and returned, jagged pieces smoothed out like stones on the beach.

A strange feeling of wholeness.

Charles murmured incomprehensible words against Erik’s collarbone as he slowly carried him into their bedroom and curled his fingers into Erik’s shirt, dampening the material and leeching Erik’s body heat away.

As he lowered him onto their bed, Charles clung to him for a moment and then passed out again.

“I’m sorry.” Erik whispered to him. The words rang hollow in the silence of their bedroom, meaningless, incomplete.

They weren’t even close to being enough. He wasn’t sure how to begin to make amends, hadn’t owed someone more of himself, more decency and respect and love than this man.

But he would try. Starting now, he was going to try.


	7. Chapter 7

Charles rolled in and out of consciousness, confused, in pain, and disoriented. He remembered Moira’s voice, ripe with anger and shouting in his ear. He remembered waking to the sensation of rain on his face, the sky above thunderous and grey, clouds descending, darkening the sky. He remembered his body swaying back and forth, his head tucked close to someone’s chest, the sound of someone’s heart beating loud and steady, in his ear, the repetitive thump thump thump lulling him into a sense of peace and serenity before the black claimed him again.

He remembered crying out when his aching body was set down, remembered the sound of many voices clamoring over each other, louder and louder, a crescendo that seemed about to explode. He had tried to sit up, but someone had pushed him down, their hands gentle and calming, their voice a low, soothing relief under the raucous noise of everyone else.

Someone’s voice rose above the others, a mounting tidal wave of panic and fury. It sounded like Erik, but Erik never yelled, never raised his voice, was always calm and in control, and would certainly never lose his composure over Charles. Charles had tried to open his eyes but they felt heavy, his vision blurring under the bright lights. He allowed himself to slip back into unconsciousness. Surely it was all a dream.

Later when it was quiet again, he woke to hear two men arguing. Their voices were hushed, aggressive whispers barely carrying over to him where he lay wrapped in furs, his wet clothing replaced with the warm, thick material of his robe. His throat was so swollen he struggled to breathe and his head felt thick, full and muddled, like someone had stuffed loose cotton in through his ears.

Peeling one eye open he could see that he was in his bedroom, and a disoriented, detached piece of his brain was grateful that he’d been allowed to sleep in their marriage bed again. Erik was standing near the doorway, his silhouette outlined in dim light, whispering to a man shrouded in darkness who spoke with an authority that could only belong to Sebastian Shaw.

“I don’t care.” Erik was saying, and Shaw, more aggressive than Charles had ever seen him, leaned in closer to Erik’s face and growled out something that Charles could only catch in pieces. His mind fluttered away, the room slipping on an angle into the sea. Shaw was ordering Erik to take him away. He was so warm, and his head was so heavy. Erik would have to roll him off the bed.

“Enough.” Erik snapped, bringing Charles back from spinning fantasies about nesting like an animal on the flagstones. “Leave us and send McCoy in.”

Erik must be having a bad day, the distant part of Charles’ brain mused. He never spoke to Shaw that way.

He shut his eyes.

***

He opened his eyes and a strange young man was standing over him. He inspected Charles through large, crooked glasses, Charles felt like a specimen, pinned down and dissected.

“I know you.” Was that his voice? It sounded far away, but the young man startled and looked up from where his long fingers were carefully pressing down on his chest in rhythmic palpitations.

“I—I’m sorry Sir. I don’t think we’ve met.” His voice was deeper than Charles expected, and it made him smile, that deep voice so shy and tentative.

“Yes, I remember. Raven made you dance. At the wedding.” In his blurred, fever bright vision he saw the boy's cheeks catch fire. He couldn’t be much older than Charles, but in that moment Charles felt so, so young, curled in bed, sick and yearning for comfort.

“Yes. Raven.“ A smile crossed his face, and Charles felt his face stretch to mirror him. “You’re quite ill Sir—“

“What’s your name?” Charles asked, and he saw the boy glance back over his shoulder at someone standing across the room. Who was over there—he was far away and everything was falling into shadow.

“Um, it’s Hank—“

“Thank you Hank. I hope we can talk more. You’re very kind.”

He shut his eyes again.

***

When he woke there was only pain. His entire body ached, and he felt lit on fire. His blankets were soaked through, he could feel it when he moved his restless legs against them, the material dragging, burning across his skin, skin that felt paper thin, brittle, the nerves sitting just below the surface.

He moaned and kicked at the offending blankets, struggling weakly to free himself, tears gathered in unshed pools in his eyes. It was dark but there were a few candles lit next to him, a fire roaring in the hearth, and the light whirled uncomfortably in his vision, stabbing a sharp knife into the soft curve above his eyes. He clawed at the blankets, scared, hurting, and felt a sick kind of panic rising in him.

Suddenly there was a hand there, a gentle pressure on his chest, grounding him and pushing him back to the mattress. He flailed out and grasped at the arm, his hand slick and sweaty, slipping down the fine arm hair and winding with the fingers on his chest. He clutched the hand to him, hugged it close.

“Please,” he begged, his voice almost gone, the words slicing through his throat like tiny slivers of metal. The hand squeezed back and he could hear a voice, low and male and familiar, telling him to calm. Whispering, “You’re alright, everything is alright,” until Charles believed him, allowed the voice to ease the fear taking hold of him, allowed the strength of the hand to ease him backwards.

The hand tried to draw away, but he kept it close and refused to relinquish it and eventually it relented. A cool cloth was smoothed over his forehead and down his cheeks. That same voice asked him to lean forward, and a body slid in behind him, an arm curving around his chest, and the arm clutched him close and he felt safe. He wouldn't die here – someone had hold of him.

Cool steel was raised to his mouth and colder liquid trickled past his lips, trailing down his throat and settling into his stomach. Soon enough his eyes grew heavy and he could feel the pain recede slowly, like leeches had latched on and sucked him dry before slowly slithering away. The body behind him held him close and hummed nonsensical words close to his ear, cradling him until he began to drift off into sleep, protected and secure.

***

It got worse from that first day, though Charles wasn’t ever aware of it. It wasn’t until later that he knew the breadth of it: his delirium, his raving, the sweat soaked sheets, how he refused to eat at first and then was completely unable to consume even water, vomiting and choking on everything, his body slowly wasting away. The leeching, insidious sickness had erupted into an inferno and Charles had been consumed.

Charles only remembered flashes, bright fevered glimpses of warped faces, melting eyes and gaping mouths that asked him incomprehensible questions. He remembered hands grasping at him like claws, hands he tried to push away with arms that felt boneless, and weighted down. He remembered piles and piles of heavy cloth loaded over his body, even though he burned—

There was sometimes, he recalled, a hand that soothed and raked gentle fingers through his hair, a voice that whispered comfort into his ear, but he couldn't remember much more past the fragmented, nightmarish memories. He hoped those memories would fade with the blessing of time.

When he awoke in the middle of the night, days after the fight and his wallowing self-pity, he was weak and disoriented, but his mind felt blissfully clear. It was dark, but the large fire in the hearth threw light and shadows and smoke into the corners of the room. Charles felt for a moment as though he had woke in the midst of a dream.

As his mind slowly cleared, he noticed someone sitting in one of the large chairs by the fire. He shifted to get a better look and felt his breath catch in his throat when the firelight caught on the sharp contours of Erik’s face. He looked drawn and haggard, his hair falling limply across his forehead, his jaw covered in red-gold stubble, dark circles carving hollows under his closed eyes.

His body was sprawled loosely in the chair, his back hunched over and head lolling forward in sleep, his impossibly long legs stretched out in front of him. Charles had never seen him so undone, so raw and vulnerable, and he shifted again, trying to get a better look.

Moving hurt and sent lightning flashes of pain through his exhausted muscles, loosening something in his chest and a cough rattling out of his lungs, sharp and loud, shattering the peaceful silence of the room. He saw Erik startle out of sleep as he heaved himself upwards, his body curling into itself as his lungs squeezed laboriously, racking out a series of painful hacking coughs before finally settling down again.

When the pain receded and he was able to gasp for air, he saw that Erik had made his way over. He hovered awkwardly by the bedside for a moment, one hand out stretched as though he wanted to place it on the twisted curve of Charles’ back, but after a lingering pause, he allowed it to fall limply back to his side.

“Can I get you something? Water?” he asked, his voice quiet and hoarse, barely audible. Charles shook his head and moved to sit back, flinching when Erik moved suddenly, his arms snapping out surprisingly fast to gather the pillows together and stack them behind Charles’ back.

Charles could only stare at him, stunned and confused, before Erik rested a gentle hand against his shoulder and eased him back to the bed. Abruptly, Charles felt what must be the lingering strands of the illness clinging to his mind, looked at Erik’s long fingers where they laid against the cotton of his shirt, felt his eyes blink slowly open and shut with great effort as he focused on them, tried to register their proximity to his body.

When his eyes rolled upwards to Erik’s face again, Erik met his gaze, and then glanced down at his hand before jerking it suddenly away. There had been a sudden familiarity in the way Erik touched him that Charles did not understand. What had changed? As far as he knew, Erik was still hated the very idea of him. He could still remember with painful clarity Erik’s sharp words, the angry line of his shoulders.

He looked at Erik’s side of the bed and saw the blankets were smooth and unwrinkled. Erik had obviously not slept here while Charles had been ill. He looked up at Erik again, still standing awkward and exhausted by the side the bed, and realized: maybe Erik hadn’t been sleeping anywhere at all.

“You must be tired,” he said finally, clearing his throat once, twice, before the words would come out. “I’m sorry if I was keeping you up.” Erik stared at him for a moment, incredulous, before he shook his head.

“Charles…” He looked like he was gathering his thoughts as he dragged a hand slowly over his face and rubbed at the beard growing around his mouth. Charles tried to wait him out but eventually felt sleep sneaking up, coming to claim him again.

“How long?” It pulled Erik from his thoughts and his eyes snapped back to Charles, pale even in the low light.

“How long for what?”

Charles swallowed against the dry patch in his throat. “How long was I gone?” Erik’s eyes fluttered shut, and not for the first time, Charles wondered what was going on in that unfathomable mind of his.

“Four days,” he finally answered, and Charles nodded slowly. As the room faded, black bleeding in from all sides as he tumbled down into sleep, he heard himself mumble,

“Is it alright if I sleep here for now?”

Erik’s voice when he spoke again sounded strangely broken, but Charles heard his words echoing in his mind even as he tripped over that narrow translucent line into heavy, undiluted slumber.

“Of course Charles. Always.”


	8. Chapter 8

Four days of sickness had passed in a hasty blur, but had still managed to drain and weaken him. He felt brittle and so fragile that he began to wonder if maybe the four days hadn't almost killed him. It was a frightening thought.

No one told him outright that he had come dangerously close to dying, but he could see the truth of his suspicions in the way Moira had grasped his hand too tight, crossing to him from her attentive post by the doorway as soon as he woke. Or how Raven had thrown herself at him, ignoring decorum or protocol, holding his body to her and releasing a shuddering sigh into his hair. Angel caught his gaze over her shoulder, eyes wide and full to the brim, fear reflected there and the shaky alleviation of worry.

He saw it most in Erik, his manner so changed he seemed like a new person. Now he remained close by, vigilant by Charles’ bedside when he was asleep, never farther than a shout away when he was awake. He still seemed resolutely stoic and unreadable, but there was something there, simmering beneath the surface, something anxious and uncomfortable, a depth of emotion that hadn’t existed before. It confused Charles, but served to impress upon him the severity of the illness in a way that nothing else did.

Only four days, and yet it was taking him a frustratingly long time to recover. He wanted to get outside, to feel the sun and rain again, to swim in the sea and dance with Raven and Angel, to ride horses and laugh and just breathe, and be, but he could barely get out of bed. Could barely even sit up.

The worst was that his body, weak and frail as it was, yearned for something more. His brief brush with mortality made him realize how painfully innocent and inexperienced he was. He had never been kissed but his lips burned for the touch of another mouth, his body ached, restless and wanting beneath the sheets, and of all the life experiences he longed for, the touch of another human being in all his untouched, pure, desperate places was what he wanted most of all.

This made Erik’s new found dedication to him all the more frustrating. Erik, who before had made it clear he didn’t want Charles, was now adjusting his weakened legs under the blankets, sitting with him and helping him eat steaming bowls of soup, the pressure of the spoon on his lips under the direct focus of Erik’s gaze almost more than he could stand.

On the second day after his fever broke, Charles decided he needed to get out of bed and asked Angel to draw him a bath. When he tried to maneuver his body out of bed, Erik quickly stood from where he had been reading by the fire and carefully gathered him up in his arms.

Charles knew the sickness still clung to his body, oily hair and sweat stained skin, the stench of days in bed, and the thought of Erik touching him now disgusted him. All of his building aggravation and confusion over the change in Erik, his confounding turnabout and his new comfort in proximity, boiled over and Charles felt suddenly, overwhelmingly irritated.

“Put me down,” he demanded, looking up at Erik’s face and catching his surprise at the flat, final sound of his voice.

“Charles, you can barely sit up, much less walk—“

“Put me down,” he said again, louder, and felt a surging panic building up in his chest. It wasn’t fair. Erik wasn’t allowed to change the rules like this, wasn’t allowed to hurt Charles and drive him away, pull back from his touch like it was venomous and then suddenly touch him with familiarity and affection. Wasn't allowed to hold him close to his body, one arm tucked beneath the secret sensitive underside of his knees, the other curling around his back like he had imagined in bed all those lonely nights. It wasn’t fair.

Erik hesitated and then set him down on the edge of the bed, where Charles clung to the mattress and tried to ease his spinning mind. The room was suddenly sideways and too bright, and he thought for a moment that he was going to pass out. When his breathing slowed, he glanced up and saw Angel and Raven standing in the doorway.

“Charles?” Angel asked tentatively, her gaze flickering from him to Erik and back again. Erik was staring at him, his mouth screwed up tightly, his hands hanging loose and ineffectual by his sides.

“Could you and Raven help me to the bath, dear?” They came to him swiftly, looping his arms over their shoulders and helping him out of the bedroom. He felt a sad kind of satisfaction when he caught Erik’s face as they passed him on the way out. For a moment, he looked as frustrated as Charles felt.

***

He had lost an astonishing amount of weight in four days, and his body under the water of the bath looked sunken in and sharp, like his bones would cut the hands of his valets as they stripped him down. After they had scrubbed him until his skin was pink and smoothed oils over his muscles to ease the lingering pain, he settled into thick woollen trousers and an enormous robe and arranged himself on the couch in his sitting room so that Hank could look him over.

Despite his spotty, fever burned memory of the last few days, he did remember Hank, his placid blue eyes and his steady hands a comforting presence in the flickering moments of clarity. Regardless of the way he rambled, sometimes to the room at large, often to himself, there was something about him that inspired calm and a sense of security.

He took his time prodding at Charles gently, under his jaw, down his chest, under his armpits, making both of them blush. When Charles began asking him questions about his procedure, about anatomy and biology and the science of medicine, Hank seemed to blossom. He started to rattle off a wealth of knowledge that astounded Charles, and he drank it in greedily.

Eventually Raven rolled her eyes and hauled Hank away from where he had dropped down next to Charles on the couch, their bodies curved together as Hank excitedly sketched out the design for a new kind of medical instrument on a scrap piece of parchment.

“I knew it was a bad idea, letting the two of you meet,” she said as Hank sputtered his apologies. She smiled at him fondly as she led him to the door. Charles twisted his body as best he could on the couch and called out to him before he left, cutting off his stumbled and hasty exit.

“It was wonderful to meet you Hank—I hope we can talk again some time soon?”

Hank nodded, his eyes lighting up, and he thanked Charles profusely until Raven was forced to shut the door in his face, but not before patting him apologetically on the arm.

“Sorry about Hank,” she said, coming back to the couch and helping Charles lie down, grabbing another heavy fur and tucking it in around his body, “If you get him going on that science stuff, he’ll never stop.”

“He’s lovely,” Charles replied, snuggling down feeling warm and sleepy, and well-taken care off. Raven’s hands were soothing as she smoothed his hair back off his forehead. “Though I think you probably already know that.”

As his eyes closed he heard Raven’s indignant shout and Moira’s laughter. He drifted off he feeling strangely content, if not perfectly happy - that perplexing dark spot called Erik hovering, as always, at the corner of his mind.

***

Before Hank had lost his professional focus and gone with Charles down the winding road of science and the mysteries of the body, he had given Charles the good news that he was on the mend. He also enforced the unfortunate stipulation that Charles was to be confined to bed rest and his rooms until Hank decided he was fit for the outside world again.

Moira helped him back to the bedroom where he relished his last moments of freedom, curled up in one of the chairs by the fire while eating a light meal of bread and fruit, trying to put flesh back on his bones.

After Moira left for the night, he heard the scrape of boots on the flagstone floor and a nervous cough. He turned and saw Erik standing just behind his chair, watching him tentatively as though he was uncertain of his welcome.

“May I join you?”

Charles didn’t understand Erik’s newfound affection for him, or his hesitance, but he felt badly about snapping at Erik earlier and so he chanced a smile and nodded.

“I come bearing tea,” Erik continued as he moved around Charles' chair and sat across from him, placing a large blue stone mug on the table. Charles gratefully wrapped his hands around the steaming mug.

He lifted it to his nose and breathed in the heady scent of cloves and fennel and something else, something sweet—honey? He looked up at Erik then and saw his face through the steam, the expression in his eyes almost fond. He sipped the tea meditatively and wondered if he should broach the topic that had been brewing in his mind since the morning and their aborted embrace. He swallowed a mouthful of tea for courage.

“You don’t have to feel bad, or guilty, if—if that’s what this is,” he gestured at the mug, but really he meant Erik’s attention, his constant presence. Erik’s eyes sharpened and narrowed in on him, but he pushed on.

“It was my fault I got sick—I was the one pouting in the sitting room all night.”

He meant it as a joke to try and ease some of the tension he had seen in Erik, could feel in the air between them, thick and suffocating, but Erik didn't smile at him, or laugh. He was quiet for a long time, staring into the fire, and Charles knew him well enough by now to know that he was trying to sort out his words and place them in the proper order. He admired that about Erik, the way he always chose his words so carefully. It made what he eventually said that much more meaningful. Charles was certain that very trait would make him a great King some day.

“It’s come to my attention that I have been quite…cruel to you Charles.” He said it while looking into the fire, watching the logs snap, sparks dancing upwards like fairly lights before dissipating into the darkness of the room. He turned his gaze to Charles and Charles could see shame and remorse in his eyes. It struck him viscerally, like a fist in his stomach. He felt the stone mug in his hand drift forward, suddenly too heavy, and he put it down on the table before he dropped it to the floor.

“I’m not sure how I can possibly make it up to you. I was hoping to start over, and maybe in time…maybe you might be able to forgive me.”

Charles opened his mouth to say something, anything, but was at a loss for words. He wanted to say that Erik was already forgiven, but something stubborn and hurt clung to his heart and he knew it wasn’t true. Still, the irritation and panic and confused, frustrated anger he had felt that morning was gone. Somewhere, deep at the back of his mind, he felt a little hope fluttering there, hope he had been unable to shake all the weeks in Genosha. It had been buried, heaped under piles of disappointment and loneliness and regret, but it sparked now and prompted him to say,

“Erik, it’s alright—“

“Dammit Charles—you almost died.” There was a razor edge of pain in Erik’s voice, something he visibly swallowed down before he could continue. “I’m so sorry.”

Erik looked down at his hands, his fingers wound together, white and interlocking, and Charles understood that Erik wasn’t expecting an answer, or absolution. He could take his time and untangle his feelings and maybe they could build something together, something new. That flickering light in his mind grew a little brighter.

They were silent for a while, Charles sipping his tea, Erik looking into the fire, until finally Erik breathed out a heavy gust of air and smiled cautiously at him. He raised a hand and gestured at the board between them where the mysterious game was perpetually arranged next to the remnants of Charles’ dinner.

“Care for a game before McCoy bursts in here and forces you back to bed?”

The moment felt too close to something he had dreamed up over many weeks of isolation and rejection and he found he couldn’t return Erik’s smile. He shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know how to play.”

Erik leaned forward, pushing the table a little closer to Charles. He kept his eyes and hands focused on setting up the pieces along his side of the board but Charles felt all of his attention when he asked, “I could teach you, if you like?”

He glanced up and Charles felt something ease in his chest at his nervous, hesitant gaze. Felt an echo of that blossoming hope.

“I’d like that very much.”


	9. Chapter 9

It was easier after that night. Not perfect or fully healed, but more relaxed, a little less tense and awkward. Charles couldn’t bring himself to reach out for Erik any longer, self preservation holding him back after one too many rejections, but slowly Erik began to take the initiative.

Every night they ate dinner in their bedroom. For the first time they actually talked to one another and had lengthy, meandering conversations about their disparate childhoods. Charles spoke about his books and solitude, his cold parents and servants, his joyous, abounding imagination. Erik asked him questions about his life, interested in Charles in a way no one had ever been before, and Charles quietly soaked up the attention like arid soil under the first fall of rain. 

When he mentioned, abstractly, how lonely he was as a child, how friendless and solitary Westchester had been for a little boy of privilege, he was surprised to see his own pain echoed in Erik’s expression. And when he laughingly recounted a story where his music teacher had taken a switch to the soft skin of his forearm as punishment for his playful, upbeat rendition of a classical composition, Erik hadn’t laughed with him, had winced instead and looked at him with compassion and common understanding.

In contrast, Erik talked about his scrapes and bruises, climbing trees and fighting dragons and curling in his mother’s lap for comfort when he fell down. Erik’s mother was something he spoke of sparingly, but each sentence was like a precious gem, offered tentatively and savored by Charles, protected and kept close to his chest. Erik never talked about her death, but his life was very obviously dividing into two separate, defined halves: before she died, and after. Anything before was rose-coloured and draped in sunshine, everything after a dark storm, a struggle painted in broad swaths of pain and bitterness and deep abiding sorrow.

After dinner they would play the game Erik called  _Chess_  and Erik would win every time, though the margin of victory grew narrower. Charles watched him, tracked his movements and strategies and slowly learned the subtle intricacies of the game. His concentration was broken only by Erik’s close proximity, his fingers running absent-mindedly over his lips, back and forth, hypnotizing. When he would make his move and shift his focus to Charles, Charles felt his eyes on him like a bolt of lightning and could only blush and look away.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself under all that focus yet.

During the day Erik had his duties, busier then ever before. The first morning after their tentative new truce, Charles woke to Erik gently setting down a teetering stack of books from his mother’s library by the bedside. When Erik saw he was awake he smiled, small and soft. 

“Something to keep you company while I’m gone.”

Charles was so foggy and disoriented with sleep, one foot still in the grey haze of dreams, that he wasn’t able to formulate a response. By the time he stuttered out a thank you, Erik was already at the door. He nodded before pulling the door firmly shut behind him, leaving Charles confused and pleased at the kind gesture, and wishing Erik could have stayed for a little while longer.

So he read during the day, devouring page after page of text, cramming his eager thirsting mind full of new knowledge. The valets would pop in and out of the room, bringing him fruit and flowers and gossip, exchanging barbs and laughing commentary with Moira who was an ever present source of companionship. He could see how his frustration and itch for freedom was echoed in Moira as well, her restless pacing, her movement tight with energy as she flowed through her combat exercises in the empty space of Charles’ sitting room, comfortable under Charles’ familiar gaze.

Though the Charles’ quarters confined them both, Moira would stay until Erik’s eventual return, just as the sun was slipping beneath the horizon. Erik was always exhausted, slumping into the chair across from Charles, but always ready and willing for food, wine and conversation, and the meditative ease of their increasingly competitive chess matches.

***

Days passed and as much as he appreciated the time to read, the walls began to close in. He felt suffocated by his bedsheets, his skin itching to feel sunlight, his lungs aching for fresh air. He felt stronger than before, no longer skin and bones, muscle slowly beginning to regrow through walking to the bathroom still exhausted him. He was certain now that Hank was being overly cautious and he was anxious for escape route.

His freedom came late one morning when Erik burst into his room. 

“I need to get out of here, are you coming?”

Charles could barely voice his agreement over the excited pulse of his heart in his throat.

Moira put up token, half-hearted protests as Erik stomped back into his sitting room and returned with various heavy articles of clothing, dumping them onto the bed next to Charles’ legs while Charles watched astonished, and then amused. Finally Moira put her hand on Erik’s arm after he held up a purple brocaded cloak and frowned at it with confusion before tossing it across the room.

“Alright! Alright,” Moira said, gripping Erik’s arm before he found offence with any other clothes, “We’ll go.” Her lips quirked as she tried unsuccessfully to hold back a smile. 

Within the hour Charles was bundled up in layers and layers of warm clothing and moving down the grand staircase toward the front entrance to the palace. His hands were tucked into the crooks of Erik and Moira’s elbows, embarrassed to be moving so slowly but thrilled by the light shining through the doorway, the smell of the air sweeping toward him as the guards pulled the towering doors open.

Outside there was a Genoshan carriage waiting for them, gold gilded and open to the air, harnessed to two massive pure white horses with braided manes. As Erik eased him into his seat and Moira climbed up next to him, they were startled by a voice calling Erik’s name. Erik waited until Charles was settled before turning to face Sebastian Shaw who was striding down the steps to meet them. 

“Erik.” He was collected and calm when he arrived next to them, but Charles could see something brewing beneath his placid smile, “I hope you haven’t forgotten about the meeting with the ministers this afternoon?” Charles watched as Erik’s fingers clenched tightly onto the doorway of the carriage. His voice when he answered was as smooth as Shaw’s was.

“Of course I haven’t. I’ve already asked Emma to reschedule.” He moved to climb up next to Charles, but Shaw’s hand stopped him, snapping out quick and sharp to grab his arm.

“Don’t you think you’ve taken enough time off?” His voice was flavored with a keen edge of steel that made Charles’ chest tighten defensively. Erik turned toward Shaw.

“I think it’s my decision. Not yours.” There was a long pause where they stared at each other, something crackling between their connected gaze. Finally Erik looked away and hoisted himself up into the carriage in a smooth, easy movement. When he was seated facing Charles, he looked down at Shaw again.

“Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to take my husband on a long overdue tour of his new home.”

Charles watched the muscle in Shaw’s jaw flex as he clenched his teeth and reluctantly stepped back from the carriage. Erik signaled to the driver who spurred the horses forward, jerking the carriage into motion and carrying them away from Shaw until he was a mere slit of black in the distance.

Charles watched his motionless figure recede until Moira drew his attention, throwing a heavy fur across his lap and pulling him closer against her side. He huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes at Erik as she tucked him in, and she pinched him gently in retaliation.

“This is the tradeoff for being allowed outside—Hank’s going to kill us all as it is, I’d rather not risk you relapsing on top of that.” Charles ignored her and tipped his head back against the red velvet seat, allowed the sun to seep into the starved skin of his face, the air gloriously cool as it swept through his hair.

After a few moments of quiet, the rhythmic steps of the horses echoing against the cobblestone, what Shaw said registered and he rolled his head forward again. When he opened his eyes he found Erik looking at him, quickly casting his eyes to the side when their gaze met.

“What did Shaw mean, you’d taken a lot of time off? I barely see you most days.” Erik shrugged and began to point out something to the right of them.

“Well, when you were sick,” Moira said, cutting him off. Charles frowned, straining his memory back. He couldn’t remember Erik appearing in any of his fevered delusions.

“I don’t really remember much. Were you there a lot, Erik?”

Erik’s face remained firmly turned away from them, and he murmured, “Not really, no.” Charles looked at Moira, her eyebrows screwed together in confusion, but she opened her mouth to speak, but Erik pointed again.

“Look there Charles. From this crest you can see the entire city.”

Charles followed his finger and felt all the breath steal out of his chest. There it was, the entire city flowing down the valley, domed roofs shining green and bronze in the light. The brightly walls of each house created a spectrum of color, a great bowl of rainbow hued buildings leading down to the sparkling scoop of the sea, and beyond that, nothing but sky and water as far as the eye could see. It was beautiful and astonishing and he had no words to describe the wondrous joy welling up inside him. He looked at Erik and he smiled and nodded like he knew anyways.

After that Charles was distracted from any conversation that didn’t involve drinking in the sights and sounds of Genosha, a subject Erik was eager and willing to discuss. He loved his city and his people, something made obvious in the way he spoke about them in length, more open than he was about his own personal history.

The carriage wound through the streets, crawling further and further through the maze of the city. He watched in wonder as people snapped open wooden shutters and hung clothing like coloured flags to dry on lines crisscrossing above them. Watched as they gathered around the wells that dotted street corners, drawing water up for each other, laughing as their children splashed through puddles and chased each other in games of the imagination.

Again and again the people called out to them as they passed by, kind words and praise, sometimes a quip that Erik returned with ease and familiarity. At one point a timid group of young children approached the carriage as it slowed at a busy crossing and offered Charles a bunch of wilted flowers. “Because you were sick, Highness,” the bravest one said with a shy smile. The petals were bruised, stems broken, blooms mismatched and obviously torn hastily from a garden and when Charles told them it was the most beautiful gift he had ever received, he wasn’t lying or exaggerating. He felt absurdly like weeping at the tender gesture and suspected Moira and Erik knew, watching as he stammered out his thanks and tried to find the proper words to express his gratitude.

By the time they made it down to the waterfront the sun had fallen lower in the sky and everything was cast in the magic golden light of late afternoon. Charles felt refreshed and alive, at peace and present in the moment as he watched the sun highlight the red in Erik’s hair. It reminded him of the first time he saw Erik standing at the top of the stairs just behind his father, sullen and stern, his profile resolutely looking away from Charles. It was markedly different looking at Erik now, smiling at him and asking if he wanted to walk for a while along the pier.

They wandered amongst the stalls lining the wooden boardwalk, listening to the merchant’s clearly pitched voices selling their wares, watching the fisherman haul in their catch, their tiny boats sailing in from the open water. Charles was overwhelmed and eager to see every tiny trinket, to taste each proffered sweet or slice of fruit, even though the rarely used muscles of his legs were growing tired. Eventually his weak knees caused him to stumble and Erik reached out to steady to steady him, catching him quickly under the elbow. After a moment he tentatively wound his arm around Charles’ waist, holding him tight against his own body.

Charles knew it was for support and, judging by the way the people smiled at them as they went past, for appearances as well, but Charles couldn’t help but revel in the comfort of it while it lasted. For a few moments, as far as anyone along the water knew, they were married and in love, stealing each other’s warmth, basking in a kind of shared companionship.

***

Night had fallen by the time they got back to the palace, settling over the city like a shroud, candles sparkling brightly in the windows like fallen stars. The fading light and the gentle rocking of the carriage had lulled Charles, and when they stopped he found he had dozed off with his head against Moira shoulder. He stumbled blearily out of the carriage, clutching his gift of flowers to his chest, barely noting the guards lining the stairs holding out torches to guide the way.

One of Erik’s valets, a beautiful blond woman named Emma, was waiting for them when they arrived at their quarters, and Erik drew her aside to ask about a late supper. As Charles went to take his usual seat, Moira caught him around the elbow and pulled him gently back to her side.

“Charles,” she said softly, keeping watch on Erik where he was still deep in conversation. “Erik was here every day when you were sick.” Charles looked over at Erik and then back to Moira, trying to decipher her meaning.

“Well yes, I assumed he would come and check up on me. I know how important the treaty is to him--“

“No,” she cut him off, her gaze narrowing to pin him in place, “He never left you, not once. I thought that you knew.”

Her words pressed into his mind, astonishing truth sparking a whirlwind of thought. He remembered now in a flash of light, as though her statement had shook something loose in his memory, the elegant fingers soothing through his hair, the voice at his ear murmuring Genoshan lullabies, songs he had only read in the Queen’s collection of books, marked and annotated by her own hand. Of course it was Erik. Who else could it have been?

Charles could feel his mouth hanging open, hundreds of words swirling around in his head, and all of them indecipherable. Moira patted him on the shoulder and gently extracted the flowers from where he had crushed them against his body.

“I know things have been awkward between you. I just...I thought you should know.”

He nodded, vaguely, and then made his way to his chair where Erik was waiting.

“Everything alright?” he asked, and why hadn’t Charles noticed that before, the barely concealed concern that was radiating from him, evident in the softness of his eyes, his open hands reaching out to steady Charles as he sunk into his chair. He nodded slowly and forced a smile.

“Thank you for today.” Erik looked pleased, though he was distracted from answering by Raven and Alex entering at the same time, arguing over dinner, each with their own tray, Raven complaining that she hadn’t seen Charles all day.

Charles watched Erik smile despite himself, looking at Charles as though they were sharing a secret, the creases around his eyes and mouth astonishingly familiar. He remembered calming hands holding him, reassuring him, grounding and steady like a lifeline in the midst of the chaos that was his four days of sickness. Erik’s hands. He never would have guessed.


	10. Chapter 10

It was a turning point. Winter turning into spring. Suddenly everything was new and different, like sunlight breaking through grey clouds to cast patterns on the ground, making the world look fresh and unusual. Suddenly everything Erik did seemed imbued with meaning, a subtle gesture, a hand reaching out to hover behind Charles’ elbow. Every look was like an open wound, raw and spilling forth everything that Erik was leaving unsaid. 

Now there was emotion in his eyes, pain and guilt and a question about forgiveness, and maybe a small, slow growing affection hesitant to name itself as something more. It scared Charles and it excited him, and he felt an echo of something painfully similar in his own heart.

The problem was that he didn’t know what to do with this strange new world and the thick cloying emotion that was building and drawing them closer together. It was like he was seeing Erik for the first time, as though Erik was exposed to Charles and his mind and intentions were perfectly clear. It was too much to take in after months of Erik being remote and cold, of rejecting Charles beneath the frosty sheets of their marriage bed.

He saw the change now, saw how Erik curled toward him at night and smiled. Said, “Goodnight Charles,” with a new warmth and a hidden depth of emotion, and it excited Charles, fanning the hope that had ignited in him that night in front of the fire, when everything had changed. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to initiate a single movement, paralyzed with uncertainty. Touching Erik’s hand softly in the dark and feeling him pull away would be so much worse now. There was so much more to lose, a mountain of hope and happiness, a learned history and timid, unspoken, slow growing love. It was piled between them in bed and in front of the fire over their games of chess and quiet dinners and Charles worried that he would knock it over, that it would come tumbling down and he would not recover.

He was waiting for Erik. He was waiting for Erik to do something and had come to the realization that night after the carriage ride that he wanted him to.

For the moment he was content with letting things be, allowing his relationship with Erik grow into something more like friendship, and put the everything else to rest for the time being.

He enjoyed being friends with Erik, getting to know him and finding out that he could be funny and playful, found he liked sharing his secrets and subjecting himself to Erik’s gentle teasing. Being with Erik made being in Genosha better, happier. Being with Erik made Genosha, finally, truly feel like home.

After the carriage excursion, Charles had dealt with a fair bit of fatigue, but it was undeniable that the fresh air made him feel stronger. Hank had been furious and worried in the wake of their adventure, had paced Charles’ sitting room the next day ranting ceaselessly about the ramifications of pushing himself too far too soon, until finally Charles had intercepted him.

“Hank,” he said, placing his hands on his shoulders and trying to project calm and a sense of authority, despite the fact that Hank towered above him. “I’m fine. I was fine.” Hank had heaved a sigh and nodded. Charles patted him on the back and smiled.

“Besides, no one will blame you if I get sick again—I promise I’ll tell them I disobeyed your direct orders.” Hank had looked at him, startled, and then gaped at him when he saw Charles was serious.

“That’s not—Charles, I’m not worried about my reputation! I’m worried about you!” Charles hadn’t known what to say to that, could only look at Hank, puzzled and confused. Eventually Hank shook his head.

“Just promise me you’ll take it easy, alright?”

He had agreed, Hank’s concern sticking with him, the evident worry echoing in his ear flavoured with guilt. And it was easy remaining inside the palace for a little while longer, especially since the weather turned grey and wet for weeks, wind howling over the roof, the stone walls growing cold and damp.

To ease the claustrophobia of being stuck inside, he began wander the halls with Moira again. They visited Sean in the kitchen where the cooks scowled over how much weight Charles had lost and stuffed him full of sweet bread and jam and spiced soup. When he grew tired he moved to Queen’s library and curled up on the soft, sagging couch with a mug of tea, sometimes reading, sometimes allowing the book to fall to his lap, his head tilted back to watch the rain cascade down the clear glass ceiling, his mind drifting away.

He was doing exactly that one morning, watching the sun burst through the clouds and finally dissipate the grey. As the room began to warm he wondered if he might be able to sneak outside now that the sun had deigned to show its face. He glanced over at Moira who was picking at her nails with the blade of one of her knives. At the very least he could try to convince Moira to take some time outside of the palace. He was sure he must be driving her crazy by now.

There was a knock on the door and Moira leapt up to answer it, shooting Charles a surprised glance when she opened the door to reveal Erik standing in the hall looking uncharacteristically awkward.

Charles scrambled off the couch and followed Erik as he headed back down the narrow hallway out into the main corridor. Charles watched the line of tension ease from his shoulders the further they moved away from the library, watched him release a heavy, weighted breath. Charles knew it pained Erik to step inside his mother’s library, the room both sacred and full of remembered sorrow. When Erik turned to him and began to offer an apology, Charles cut him off with a gentle hand on his arm.

“Was there something you needed?”

Erik sighed. “I was just visiting my father. We’re supposed to meeting with Sebastian for dinner in his stead.” He smiled ruefully, “Is it bad I don’t want to go?”

The King had fallen ill shortly after Charles made his initial recovery. At first Hank had believed they suffered from the same illness, but Jakob’s bout had persisted, and they couldn’t determine what was causing the fatigue, and nausea and crippling pain. Charles could see the growing seed of worry in Erik with every day that passed and the King’s illness remained.

Shaw wasn’t making it easier on him, placing more demands on Erik in his father’s absence. These days he seemed worn thin and Charles could see the strain in him, and felt terrible for his own part in that, for the burden of his illness and recovery on Erik’s time. 

“Don’t you dare feel bad,” he replied smiling back at Erik, and, hesitating a moment, reaching out again to take his hand. Erik looked surprised and then pleased, squeezing back gently.

“At least you’ll be there—you can distract him with your most recent treatise on sea urchins.” Charles opened his mouth to happily agree, when he saw the twinkle of good humour spark in the level colour of Erik’s eyes and recognized that he was being teased. He pouted instead which made Erik laugh, suddenly looking years younger and closer to the age he actually was before the great weight of sorrow and responsibility had settled over him. Charles spoke suddenly, caught up in the moment and Erik’s laughter and the feeling of callused fingers wrapped around his own.

“Instead of dinner with Shaw, would you like to go for a walk with me?”

Erik faltered, torn, and Charles gently pushed him a bit farther, “I’m sure Sebastian will understand the importance of fresh air in my recovery?” Erik laughed again and nodded, tension draining out of him in a great puff of air.

“Alright, yes.” He tugged a little on Charles’ hand. “Just let me send my apologies to Sebastian, and then I know exactly where we can go.”

***

Within the hour Charles was at the stables, saying goodbye to a begrudgingly grateful Moira. He watched her for a moment as she made her way down the path toward the training fields, her shadow growing long in the afternoon sun, before he turned and made his way inside.

He took his time soaking in the longed for smells and sounds of the building, saying hello to the horses and searching for Logan. He found him eventually in the tack room fixing the torn leather of a stirrup, and Charles took a moment to admire the nimble strength of his fingers before clearing his throat, drawing Logan’s attention.

When he looked up and saw Charles leaning in the doorway, his mouth curled up on one side into a crooked smile.

“Hey, you’re alive.” Charles couldn’t help but smile back, walking into the room and sliding onto a stool next to him.

“I’m alive,” he agreed. Logan laughed in the short, sharp way that Charles had missed, nudging Charles with his elbow and almost knocking him off his stool.

“I missed you around here, kid—you here to help out?” Charles grinned and rubbed his shoulder where Logan’s elbow had dug in.

“Not today. Erik is taking me somewhere.” He was unable to mask the excitement in his voice and Logan’s eyebrows crept upwards as he turned his attention to Charles, looking up from the saddle in his lap.

“He is, is he?” Charles nodded. “Well good.” He sounded pleased.

“Good?” Charles asked.

“Yeah, good. I was worried you were being held prisoner up there in the palace.”

Charles rolled his eyes, scowling when Logan ruffled his hair and batting his hand away, pushing at Logan and laughing when Logan shoved him easily off his stool.

He was helping Charles up, one large hand securely wrapped around his arm, the other dusting him off and plucking loose pieces of hay from his hair, when a gentle knock on the doorframe drew their attention. Charles looked up and saw Erik standing at the door, his mouth pulled down into a frown, his eyebrows drawn together unhappily. When they made eye contact the expression quickly vanished from his face, smoothing out into a familiar placid mask.

He stood and crossed to Erik’s side, brushing the rest of the dirt and straw from his clothes, suddenly painfully conscious of his appearance. Erik smiled at him and Charles felt a moment of guilt for hoarding Erik’s time and attention when Erik was obviously still troubled by his father’s illness.

“Ready to go?” Erik asked and Charles nodded, determined to make the most of their stolen afternoon. Logan got to his feet, moving to prepare their horses when Erik held out a hand to stop him.

“Actually, I was hoping Charles could do it.” Logan glanced between them surprised and eventually shrugged, dropping down to his stool again. Charles hovered between the two men indecisively, worried he might make a fool of himself. Erik gave him an encouraging smile.

“I know you made the offer a long time ago, but I was hoping you might show me the ropes,” he hesitated, “If you wouldn’t mind?” Charles looked at Logan who was pointedly ignoring them and allowed the tension to ease in his chest. He nodded at Erik and returned his smile, leading him out into the corridor.

***

Erik followed Charles around the stable, watching him closely as he carefully groomed the horses and saddled them, precisely following each step Logan had showed him months ago, nervous and shy under Erik’s watchful gaze.

It was easier once the horses were ready and he could mount and settle into the familiarity of the height and scoop of the saddle, rocking comfortably in his seat as his horse shifted from side to side. He watched as Erik settled into the saddle gracefully, smiling over and beckoning Charles to follow him.

They rode for a while, crossing the grounds in an easily loping stride. Charles hadn’t been riding since before he left Westchester, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed it until he could feel the wind in his hair, his body moving in fluid motion with his horse. He had always loved riding, or he had before his tutors had drained all the joy out of it, perfecting his posture, correcting the tension of his hands on the reigns. But this, riding with Erik, he felt free.

Eventually Erik reigned in at a wide stretch of grass running alongside a grove of trees. They were close enough to the sea that Charles could hear the waves breaking against the shore. Following Erik’s lead he dismounted and tied his horse off on a low hanging branch, swinging his arms and feeling the muscles in his back stretch and loosen. He could barely restrain himself from running through the grass, tilting his face upwards toward the afternoon sun. It was unseasonably warm, Charles dressed only in loose white shirtsleeves and a navy waistcoat, and he teased Erik who grumbled about the heat in his long red coat, the tails flaring out in the breeze, but offering him little relief.

They were heading toward the water, Erik pushing aside branches and cutting a pathway through the grove, the sound of the waves growing louder with each step. They arrived eventually at a hidden staircase seemingly carved by wind and rain into the cliff face, concealed by twisted trees lining the steer edge. Charles doubted he would have found the way if Erik hadn’t parted the leaves and guided him through the thicket, pointing out the first step.

Descending the stairs was frightening and thrilling, and thankfully only a short trek until they reached the bottom. They had arrived in a small, private beach of white sand cut off from the rest of the world by the tall curving semi circle of stone. Charles stood for a moment just breathing in the salt air, watching the water crash against the beach and then wash back out to sea.

“What is this place?”

Erik landed on the sand next to him with a muted thump, slipping his hands into his coat pockets.

“I use to come here all the time when I was a boy.” He walked closer to the water’s edge and sat down on the sand, digging his boots in and curving his arms around his bent knees, his coat flaring out behind him a splash of colour on the sun bleached ground. The sand soft and warm on his hands when Charles moved to sit down next to him, scattered here and there with smooth stones, their edges rounded by the tide. He collected a handful and allowed them to run through his fingers back to the sand. It was obvious Erik had more to say and Charles waited him out.

“I found this place right after my mother died.”

Charles was careful not to move or make any sound that might frighten Erik away from his train of thought. The seclusion of the beach seemed to settle around them like a warm blanket.

“I’ve never felt more alone, or scared then I did during those first months. I kept running away.” He laughed shortly, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine how worried my father must have been, but back then I didn’t care. I didn’t really care about anything.” He looked up from where his fingers had begun tracing shapeless designs in the sand, his eyes level on the horizon and as grey as the line where the sky kissed the water. Charles could only watch him, watch his expression shift through minute emotions barely discernible to an outsider’s point of view and wonder when he became so familiar with Erik’s face.

“When I found it, it was so quiet. I felt safe. I felt like nothing could touch me here.” He smiled. “I still feel like that.” Charles found he was smiling back without hesitation, without thinking about ulterior motives, or past pain, or the confusing twist of emotions that hung between them. That Erik was sharing this with him, this memory, this place, obviously so sacred to him - it meant more then words could express.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” he said after a moment, once he could speak around the clench in his throat. He looked around at the tall walls of stone, the wide expanse of water that was glittering green in the bright sunlight. “It’s so peaceful.”

Erik smiled again, closing his eyes and stretching backwards on the sand on his back, his hands reaching above his head languorously.

“It’s nice to have a place where no one can find you.” He smirked. “Now I come here to escape Emma or Sebastian.”

“Shirking your responsibilities?” Charles asked with a laugh. Erik murmured an agreement, allowing his eyes to fall shut and Charles found himself tracking the muscular stretch of his legs under his tight trousers, the rise and fall of his chest, his collar loosened and hanging open in deference to the heat. Suddenly he felt that same anxious thrill rise up in him that he had felt in the first days after his fever broke. That painful urge for something more. He wanted to do anything in that moment, tired of his own responsibilities, tired of keeping himself safe and closed off. He was ready to live.

He leapt to his feet, startling Erik who flinched and shaded his eyes, looking up at him.

“Charles?” he asked, but Charles had turned to look out at the water. He remembered that day with Moira, walking along the beach, wrapped in his coat and collecting stones, remembered how all he wanted was to feel the seawater on his skin.

Now he could.

He hands went to his buttons and he fumbled them open, peeling off his waistcoat and dropping it onto the sand, stumbling forward on one foot and than the other, pulling off his boots. He could hear Erik calling his name but he was already at the water’s edge, the waves lapping his bare feet, dressed only in his breeches and loose shirt. The wind rolled off the water and tugged at his clothes, sending his hair into disarray. He looked over his shoulder to find Erik on his feet, one hand clutched around the dark silk of Charles’ waistcoat, his expression shocked and confused. Charles grinned at him, and then plunged into the water.

It was freezing, colder then he expected, but the waves were gentle, pulling at his legs as he waded out. He stopped when the water lapped against his waist, acclimatizing and trying to absorb every sensation. He allowed his feet to sink into the thick wet sand beneath him, grounding himself as the water shifted around him, rocking him back and forth. For a moment he could imagine that he was the only living creature in the entire world, just him and the sea, breathing together, moving together in endless motion.

He twisted back and forth trailing his fingers on the surface of the water, rings spreading out under the movement of his hands, and imagined himself as the old gods, able to manipulate the sea. Finally he braced himself, took a deep breath and plunged under the surface. The water was a shock, closing over his head in a staggering punch, and he pushed his feet against the ground, came up sputtering and laughing, shaking out his hair.

He turned to look back at Erik and froze, struck by the expression on his face, wide-open and raw, pinning Charles in place. He couldn’t move, suddenly aware of how translucent his shirt was, how his clothes clung wetly to his body, and he felt vulnerable and exposed under Erik’s gaze, and thrumming with a strange new heat, lighting up inside his chest and spreading outwards into his fingers, and his toes.

He waded toward shore, drawn in by the warmth in Erik’s eyes. Standing on dry land again, there was a long moment when they stood close to one another, Charles leaning into the heat radiating off of Erik’s body, Erik reaching out to brace him, lost in each other’s orbit.

Erik drew away slightly and shrugged off his coat, drawing it around Charles’ shoulders, his arms coming around him to create an unending circle that connected them together. Slowly, carefully, he adjusted the heavy material over Charles’ body, tugging the collar closer to the exposed skin of Charles’ nape, pulling the lapels together across his chest. Charles could only stand and allow the lingering warmth of Erik’s body to seep into him through the jacket, staring up into Erik’s face. Erik who looked right back at him, unflinching and still so open.

“Can you swim?” Erik asked finally with a smile, his hands still holding his coat closed around Charles’ body. His knuckles were pressed against Charles’ chest, and he felt them as warm, comfortable weights against his lungs and heart.

“No,” he replied, “That’s the first time I’ve ever been in the sea.”

Erik’s smile grew wider.

“I’m glad I was here to see it then.”

Charles could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. He was helpless against it, against the gravity of Erik, his body captured and ensnared. He laughed and it came out as a breathless, broken puff of air.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t more impressive than me floundering around. I think I almost drowned myself.”

Erik’s eyes were unspeakably fond as they flickered over his face.

“I wouldn’t have let you drown.”

In the weighted pause that followed, Erik seemed to be searching for something as he looked at Charles, a question alive in his gaze. Charles felt a blush growing in the cold skin of his cheeks, heating the drops of water that fell from his sodden hair, streaking down his face and onto the exposed skin of his throat. He wanted to wipe at them, to push back his hair, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

After an extended moment of unspoken tension, Erik seemed to find the answer he was looking for in Charles’ eyes and slowly, oh so slowly, he leaned forward and touched his mouth to Charles’. The kiss was nothing more than a light press of lips, hesitant, unsure, giving Charles the chance to back out.

Charles couldn’t think at all, couldn’t comprehend what was happening, but he knew he wanted more. His eyes fluttered shut involuntarily and he pressed forward, his lips parting naturally. He felt Erik’s mouth change against his own, curving into a smile, and one of his hands came up to Charles’ face, fingers curving around his jaw as though he was something precious. Erik held him steady, grounding him as always, even when Charles felt his heart was bursting into thousands of little pieces, floating through his veins, threatening to lift him off the ground and carry him away.

Too soon Erik drew back, pressing one last kiss firmly against his mouth, smiling down at him, and Charles felt weightless and dizzy, and was dimly aware that he was smiling like a fool, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Let’s get you inside before you get sick again.”

Charles nodded his agreement, though he didn’t feel cold anymore, didn’t feel weak or sick. He felt warm and alive, his feet hardly touching the ground as they made their way up the stone staircase back to the palace.


	11. Chapter 11

If Charles had thought the past few weeks had been loaded with intent, he was not prepared for the hours after the kiss when each moment was blown open and raw, dragging against him like the pull of the sea. Something as simple and innocuous as Erik’s hand on him, brushing against his leg as Charles settled into his saddle spread from his toes to his heart in a flash of fire, gone too soon as Erik moved away to mount his own horse.

Charles barely remembered handing off their horses to Logan. He was ensnared in Erik, hazy and drunk on his presence, Erik’s smell permeating his senses, clinging to the coat Charles had tucked around his shoulders, Erik’s hand on the small of his back a heavy weight leading him gently back to their rooms.

They parted reluctantly in the bedroom, Charles stepping into his private quarters for a bath, his skin cold and clammy, his hair crusted over with salt. He was relieved for once that Raven and Angel were no where to be found, happy to have a few moments to himself to try and calm his racing heart as his body curled beneath the hot, soapy water of the tub.

As he dragged a cloth over his shoulders and down his chest, his breath caught in his throat, his skin over sensitive and almost stinging with arousal. He didn’t know how he could stand to see Erik again when his own hands on his body were almost too much. How could he touch Erik, lie next to him in bed that evening and not combust or burst into flames at the pure, unadulterated wanting that saturated through his skin?

He stayed in the bath until the water grew cool. By that time he felt less like he was flaking out of his own skin, the cracks in his foundation tight enough that the desire wasn’t seeping through. He dried himself off and measured his breaths, felt his body settle as he grounded his feet into the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

He pulled on his shirt and was struck suddenly by the memory of his marriage night. He remembered Moira rolling up his sleeves, remembered how he shook with nerves as Raven smoothed gloss across his untouched body, making him shine. So much had changed since that night, his body thinner from being sick, his cheeks and nose slightly red and freckled from his day in the sun. He was still overcome with nerves thinking of Erik waiting on him in the next room, but this time he didn’t feel afraid. Erik was his friend. Erik was his husband who kissed him by the sea, open and willing. He felt the nerves melt into something more like breathless anticipation.

He pulled his heavy robe over his shirt and belted it tight around his waist like armor, smoothing his damp hair away from his face and giving himself a reassuring smile in the mirror. He looked at once younger and older than his eighteen years, and startlingly unlike himself. He searched his reflection for a moment before he recognized the change: he looked happy. He looked alive. His watched his own smile grow wider and headed out toward the bedroom.

***

Erik had lit the lanterns and the room looked warm and inviting when Charles slipped through the door. Candlelight flickered warmly against the walls and across the soft, rumpled blankets of their bed, the doors to the balcony closed against the cool night air sealing them into a secluded paradise.

Erik was crouched by the fire, nudging it further to life with an iron poker, the planes of his face sharp and handsome in the firelight. Their chess game had been moved to the floor and replaced with a tray of food, assorted meat and soft cheese, thick bread and a bowl of fruit settled next to a decanter of wine. Charles forgot the building anticipation of the evening as his stomach twisted in hunger.

“I hope you don’t mind that I asked Raven to bring us something to eat?” Erik asked, rising to his feet.

Charles shook his head, stepping swiftly over to his chair grabbing a plum from the table, laughing when juice burst from the ripe flesh and dripped down his chin. He settled into his seat, wiping at the mess with the back of his hand before taking another more conservative bite. Erik dropped slowly into the opposite chair, his attention narrowed in on Charles’ mouth, and Charles was abruptly aware of the red-purple fruit staining his lips, the wet pull of skin as he licked at his sticky fingers.

He felt a rush of blood bloom across his cheeks. Just like that all the tension flooded back into the room and he ached under the strain of it. Every part of his mouth tinged with yearning, his tongue heavy behind his teeth, his lower lip trembling with want. He chewed and swallowed, the sound overly loud in the hush of the room, a room now full of unspoken words and barely formed thoughts, muddy with something Charles finally knew how to name.

Desire.

He had read books of biology and physiology, knew the technical terminology for his body’s reaction, but nothing could have prepared himself for the tightening coil in his belly, the maddening drag of clothing against his skin. It was a gentle tease that was at once too much and not enough. Erik’s eyes from across the table cut into him, and he was barely able to answer his simple, lighthearted questions, barely able to formulate words around the clench of his heart caught in his throat.

Erik seemed outwardly unaffected but his gaze lingered again and again on Charles’ mouth, on the sliver of skin exposed by the gaping collar of his robe. Charles was drawn in turn to Erik’s bare legs and the line of his throat as he tipped his head back against his chair. He knew what was coming, or he thought he knew, or he hoped (oh dear god he hoped with everything he had left in him) and every moment, every morsel of bread consumed, every crack of wood in the hearth as the fire burned low, took them closer and closer to the inevitable.

Soon enough Erik murmured that he was going to retire and Charles stumbled slightly as he quickly stood to follow him. Erik reached out to catch him but Charles straightened himself, embarrassed, and headed around the chair to the bed, taking his time to pull back the covers.

Erik joined him after a moment, pulling off his robe in the same economical fashion he always did, dropping it to the floor and sliding under the sheets. In contrast, Charles felt absurdly self-conscious. They had shared a bed for months now and Charles had grown accustomed to bare legs and a thin layer of cotton. Now, with the weight of the day and Erik’s eyes on him, shedding his robe made him feel vulnerable, like he was peeling away his skin.

The lamps had burned low, but there was still enough light to see Erik’s body stretched beneath the covers, languid and beautiful. Charles clutched the thick material of his robe closer to his body consumed all at once by fear and an overwhelming sense of unworthiness. What was he doing? Even hoping against hope that this night might be leading to something more, he realized now he was completely unprepared. Surely Erik with all his confidence and worldliness would find him wanting.

There was a long moment when Erik simply watched him before he quietly said, “Goodnight Charles” as he had almost every night since the first night, and rolled over. Rolled away. Just the same as always. Charles felt a crippling sorrow drench his bones. He unbelted his robe, dropped it to the floor and climbed numbly into bed.

He lay there for a moment trying to breathe, fighting the telltale prick of pain behind his eyes, trying to remind himself that one kiss meant nothing. Maybe it was just the beginning of something more, something they could work on and build, and maybe one night Erik might want him—

He was drowning, buried under his thoughts and choking on them when Erik shifted and rolled over. The sound of his body moving against the sheets was deafening in the quiet, a rustle and slide and pause. Charles kept his eyes shut and tried to listen above the thunderous beating of his own heart.

Slowly, oh so slowly, there was another slide of skin against cloth, and gently, tentatively, Charles felt fingers brushing his hand where it lay limply at his side. Charles waited and held his breath, his hand open and unmoving on the bed. Just the feeling of the pads of Erik’s fingers dragging across the sensitive skin of his palm sent a shock of arousal through his nerves. He felt his body twitch in response but remained stubbornly still, waiting to see what Erik would do.

Finally Erik’s fingers curled in between Charles’ and squeezed his hand gently. Charles could hear him breathing, could feel the exhaled air caress his face. And when Erik whispered “Charles,” he couldn’t keep himself from opening his eyes to take in Erik’s body curled toward him for once, his eyes focused in on Charles’ as they fluttered open, their clasped hands on the bed between them.

For a long moment they merely looked at each other in the dim golden light of the room. Erik shifted, releasing Charles’ fingers to bring his hand up to Charles’ face, brushing back the hair that was obscuring his eyes before cupping his cheek, his thumb brushing along his cheekbone. It was such a tender gesture, so sweet and so hesitant and gentle that it made Charles want to weep.

Erik shifted again so that his head was almost resting on Charles’ pillow, and this time when he said Charles’ name, the shape of the word spoken softly against his mouth, Charles decided he couldn’t wait any longer. Squeezing his eyes shut, he slid forward and closed the gap between them, and with a quick intake of breath pressed their lips together.

They remained like that, mouths pushed together almost brutally until Erik moved, the hand cradling Charles’ face threading into his hair, his other arm sliding under Charles’ body until the flat of his palm was pressed against Charles’ back.

As Erik’s arms pulled him even further into his embrace, Charles’ body felt odd and abstract, unsure of where his hands should go, or his legs. Erik used the hand in his hair to tilt his head, to angle the kiss into something more gentle, and Charles heard himself moan loudly and involuntarily. His fingers went to Erik’s chest where he scrambled for traction, his fingers clawing into the material of Erik’s shirt.

Suddenly it was too much, too hot beneath the blankets, and he felt himself falling to pieces like a frozen lake at the first kiss of summer, heating and then melting and then breaking apart. Erik’s mouth on his was perfect, and he wanted more and more, and he couldn’t stop himself from panting, from thrusting his hips against Erik’s, out of control and nearly frantic with it. Erik drew back, almost forcibly pushing Charles away, and ran his hair through Charles’ hair to soften the action.

“Easy,” he murmured, his eyes warm with arousal, but also flashing with something like concern. Charles lunged forward again, but Erik held him back with a hand to his chest. “Hey,” he said softly, “hey—there’s no rush.”

Charles felt abruptly foolish and inexperienced and in over his head. He sat up and twisted to face Erik, Erik’s hand falling onto his knees tucked under the covers. The look of concern blossomed across Erik’s expression and he propped himself up on one elbow, his hand gripping Charles’ knee a little tighter.

“Charles…?”

Charles’ heart felt like it was going to explode out of his chest, and he wound his fingers together to keep his hands from shaking. Surely Erik could feel his body trembling beneath his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, his voice suspiciously fragile. Erik shook his head, confused.

“Sorry for what?”

Charles tried to smile, tried to calm his racing heart, and shrugged.

“I don’t know what I’m doing. No one’s ever…” He huffed out a frustrated breath, trying to order his words, unable to look at Erik and see disappointment there, or pity. Finally he choked it out. “Nobody wanted me, and so I don’t know how to—“ he gestured vaguely between them. “I’m sorry that you’re stuck with me. I’m sorry I can’t be—good—“

Erik sat up swiftly, his hands coming to Charles’ face where he gripped him harder than maybe he intended, startling enough to capture all of Charles’ attention.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he said, fierce and ardent, his mouth tight, his eyes narrowed as though trying to impress his words upon Charles through his gaze alone. His fingers were wound tight into Charles’ hair, and Charles’ hands came up to grip his forearms, not trying to push him away, but needing to touch him to ground himself.

“They were fools,” Erik whispered, and when Charles shook his head, confused, Erik clung to him more closely. “Anyone who wouldn’t want you is a fool. I’m glad they never got their hands on you, because they wouldn’t have known what to do with something so beautiful.” His hands gentled in his hair, his fingers easing through the strands, and Charles felt himself melt and lean forward, lost in the net of Erik’s body, his expression.

“Erik.” The name came out almost silently, his mouth shaping words, but breathlessly unable to speak them.

“Don’t you see Charles?” Erik asked, his fingers gently tracing the arch of Charles’ eyebrow, the line of his nose, the curve of his chin, his mouth placing a kiss on each place in the wake of his hands. Charles felt a calm settle over him, lulled by Erik’s words and hands and mouth. He shook his head in response to his question, and when Erik’s fingers tilted his face up, their eyes locked together as Charles waited for him to explain.

“You were always ours. You always belonged to Genosha.” He pressed forward and kissed him on the mouth, searching and giving, and full of all the yearning Charles felt himself, and when Erik pulled back he was unable to open his eyes again and felt Erik’s breath before he placed one kiss on each eyelid. He tucked his face in close, leaning against Charles’ shoulder and breathing against the vulnerable skin of his throat.

“Genosha belongs to you too, Charles.  _I_  belong to you—will you take what is yours?”

The words were like fire racing through Charles’ veins. He felt a sudden jolt of pleasure rush from his heart down to his groin, aching and wondrous, and he wanted more. He brought his own hands up to Erik’s face and gently pressed him backward so they could look one another in the eye again.

“Will you teach me?” Erik’s look of adoration was enough to banish any shame he felt, any discomfort or hesitancy. “Will you show me how?”

“Yes,” Erik replied in a rush, his voice heavy with emotion, and Charles could hear his own eagerness and devotion echoed there. Erik pulled back, peeled his shirt off in a rush. It tangled in his arms and mussed his hair, and when he laughed at his clumsiness Charles laughed as well, worry and tension leeching out of him. He could do this. He wanted to do this.

Erik’s body in the low light of the room was as gorgeous as he imagined it would be, broad shoulders and narrow waist like the painting of the ancient warrior his mother had hung in her salon to be praised by her witless ladies in waiting. But Erik was warm and solid and real, a gift sitting right in front of him. Charles allowed himself to reach out, to press his palm against the broad plane of his chest and feel the muscle twitch. He could feel Erik’s heart beating beneath his palm, moving like a horse straining against the reins, eager to run.

Erik watched Charles’ tentative exploration of his body, easing the sheets back and kneeling closer to him, and Charles risked a glance downwards, saw Erik laid bare in his entirety. He felt his mouth go dry, felt his body seize up, and in an attempt to control his almost visceral reaction, forced himself to name the muscles straining in his thighs, and along the sharp bend of his hip bone, tried to see Erik’s cock as something scientific and not something that he wanted to touch and taste, thoughts he had barely allowed himself to have even in the privacy of his own head. But when they flashed to the forefront of his mind in that singular perfect moment, Erik bare beneath his hands, he decided with a sudden clarity and strength of purpose that he was  _allowed_. He looked and Erik and remembered: Erik was his, was his husband and his king and Charles was allowed to touch and taste and give up his own body in return.

These thoughts swirling in his mind brought a new stain of red to his face, and when he looked up at Erik he could feel the blush burning in his cheeks, but Erik only grinned at him, encouraging him to smile back. His hand was still on Erik’s chest and he slid it to the back of Erik’s neck. Before he could second-guess himself, he pulled Erik forward into another kiss.

The knelt on the bed in front of each other, kissing deeply, devouring one another until Erik’s hands slipped under the hem of Charles’ shirt, his large palms sliding up the untouched skin of his back and down again to rub slow circles into the sensitive dip at the base of his spine. Charles pushed closer, rolling against him, feeling the heat rise up and start to take him out of his own head, and Erik only gripped him tighter.

When he tugged at the hem of Charles’ shirt, and leaned back to mumble against his mouth, “Can I?” Charles nodded. He moved back to give him enough space to slide the shirt up his body and over his head, the two of them working in tandem to make it significantly more graceful then Erik’s disrobing, though the drag of material across his flushed skin was almost more than he could bear.

Erik balled up the shirt and tossed it across the room. Charles felt suddenly shy, his body as narrow and pale, and exposed for the first time in front of someone who mattered. He crossed one hand across his chest and rubbed at the opposite arm bashfully, hyper aware of the cool air across his skin, the blush that was blooming at his sternum, how heavy and full his own cock was, curving up against his belly.

Erik grasped lightly onto the arm that was covering up his body and pulled it away. He rubbed his thumb along the soft underside of his forearm, and even that was almost too much, his entire body pulsing with desire.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he said, his voice soft and reverent as he gazed at Charles, “You don’t have to hide ever again. You’re perfect.”

And he kissed Charles again with enough breadth of emotion that Charles almost believed him. The kisses this time were direct, coaxing Charles’ mouth open so Erik could lick inside, and Charles tried to follow his lead, a thrill running through him with Erik moaned at the touch of Charles’ tongue against his own.

Charles was just trying to comprehend that, that he was the one who wrenched that sound out of Erik, who was normally so stoic, so in control, when Erik eased him backwards, lowering Charles to the bed. Erik propped himself on his elbows above him, slipping own leg between Charles’ sprawled limbs and gradually, incredibly, he pressed his thigh up against Charles cock, rubbing and rubbing, delicious friction that bordered on painful, but pleasurable enough that it wiped all other thought from Charles’ mind.

He was aware that Erik’s cock was rubbing against his hip, and that maybe he was suppose to do something for Erik in return, but he couldn’t think, could barely breath, his mouth hanging open and gasping, unable to return the kisses Erik lavished upon him, not the gentle bite to his lower lip, nor the sucking bruise beneath the hinge of his jaw. His fingers were clutched tight into Erik’s shoulder blades, and surely he was cutting into the skin there, but he couldn’t ease up, and really, it was only fair because Erik was tearing him apart.

There was a fist of something curling tighter and tighter at the bottom of his stomach, unbelievable untapped pleasure that seemed to draw from every tiny piece of his body, and he felt it pull and pull, distantly aware that he was making pained sounds like a wounded animal and he thought he might be embarrassed about that later but now, now there was only this: his eyes clenched tight and the nearly unbearable ecstasy and Erik above him rutting against him, his body so firm, so warm, holding him close holding him tight, and then it was—

Bliss. His body arched and shuddered, but it was remote, his senses completely overwhelmed by the blinding white and bursts of dazzling colour behind his eyelids, rocketing through his body, wrenching every last drop of burning desire from him, crackling though him again and again until he was finished and he was able to open his eyes again.

Dazed, he blinked lazily up at Erik who was still positioned above him, running a soothing hand over his brow and through his hair, kissing him lightly again and again all over his face and chest and throat. He roused himself enough to look down, saw the splatter of white fluid across his stomach and Erik’s, saw Erik’s cock still hard, felt the heavy weight against his buzzing skin.

Pushing through the glowing haze that had settled over him like a heavy blanket was a sudden horrified embarrassment. Surely that had happened far too quickly? And he had left Erik wanting—

Some of this must have passed across his face, because as he opened to mouth to apologize, Erik laid his fingers across his lips and smiled and said,

“Don’t you dare. You were gorgeous. Thank you.”

He shifted, trying to get some feeling back in his limbs, trying to hear above his own heart still beating loudly in his ears.

“Thank you for what?” He asked, incredulous, but Erik only smiled wider and shook his head, leaning down to kiss him, and Charles opened for it eagerly, the ache and desperation of arousal diminished, but not gone, only simmering now, a slow burn.

He could only move his mouth lazily at first, still drifting and heavy, but Erik was riding the hard edge of arousal and his kisses were hard and desperate, his hands moving up and down Charles’ body driving him onwards, pulling him out of his languor, until he was aching for it again. They had twisted onto their sides, facing each other, their bodies intertwined, hips jerking forward, kisses growing frantic, interspersed with panting anxious breaths.

“Erik,” he gasped, “Erik, tell me what to do, tell me how to—“ Erik pulled away with a fraught groan, untangling himself from Charles and rolling backwards, rummaging in the low, ornate cabinet next to the bed and returning in a rush, his hand clutched around a small bronze tin, pushing back into Charles’ space and claiming his mouth with vigor.

Erik fumbled as they kissed, trying to unscrew the lid of the tin, and Charles pushed him back, laughing, giving him space to open it. Inside was a thick golden liquid, like oil, and Erik hastily dipped his fingers in, scooping some of it up, coating his palm until it was glistening in the low light.

“What is it for?” He asked, and was shocked to hear how low his voice was, scraped raw, and Erik’s sounded the same when he answered,

“You’ll see.” He set the tin aside, lid askew, on top of the cabinet, and Charles wondered aloud, almost to himself,

“How long have you had that in there?” But Erik didn’t answer, only slid across the bed until he was in Charles’ space again, breathing the same air, and without hesitation, lined himself up with Charles and wrapped his hand around both of their cocks. The sensation of Erik’s hand on him, pressing them together, his lovely long fingers holding them just tight enough was impossibly good. Charles’ eyes rolled back in his head and he thought he might black out.

There were spots in his eyes still when he forced them open, wanting to watch Erik come apart the same way he had watched Charles earlier, but then Erik began sliding his hand up and down, the thick oil making the path smooth, but with just enough pressure that there was no pain, only sweet, delicious friction pulling them closer to the inevitable finish line.

Soon, too soon, Charles felt that same tight curl in his stomach; something he hoped was going to become commonplace and familiar in the future. He thought Erik might be close as well, his mouth hanging open, his breath coming in short pants, each exhalation edged with a slight groan, a sound that was almost doing more for Charles then Erik’s hand on him.

Suddenly Erik tensed, his eyes snapping shut, and he curled forward, his stomach muscles clenching, his shoulders rounding in. Charles felt the rush of heat against his own cock, and he knew this was Erik at his most open, his most vulnerable, and he couldn’t look away from his face, beautiful and transcendent, lost in the moment. He made a gorgeous extended moan, not loud, or too long, but raw and involuntary, and it was that that finally sent Charles tumbling over.

It was not the desperate wrenching that he had felt the first time, but no less awe inspiring, just a little sweeter, a little less intense, and he was able to ride it out, coasting along the waves as they grew higher and higher and then receded. When it was over, there was a calm, a sense of peace he had never experienced until this perfect moment, laying in his bed, looking at Erik, his husband who breathed deep and kissed him and smiled.

***

The best was yet to come. It was later, after they had detangled, wiped themselves down and slipped between clean sheets, fresh and soft and warm, after Erik had held Charles’ shirt ransom until he laughed and capitulated and agreed to sleep without it. 

Later Erik blew out the candles and turned down the lamps, slid in next to Charles and reached across the divide of their bed to pull Charles to him. He wrapped him up, pressing his chest to Charles’ back, tucking his cold feet in between Charles’ calves, running a soothing hand over Charles’ heart.

This was the perfect moment, when Charles reached up to grip Erik’s hand and tangle their fingers, the two of them finally wound together in the dark, like pieces of a puzzle finally found and fit together.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning Charles woke in slow increments. His body felt heavy, but his mind was surfacing, reaching upwards, registering sunlight made soft through white curtains. His arms were tucked underneath him, one under his pillow, one curled next to his mouth, his knuckles damp from his breath. Instead of the heavy weight of Erik along his back, that comforting, steady presence he had fallen asleep to, there was only the tangle of sheets.

He felt a little flare of disappointment before he felt Erik’s palm as it landed softly on him over the blanket, a warm pressure that smoothed up the length of his spine. Gentle fingers curled under the sheet where it touched Charles’ neck and tugged it slowly down, letting it pool around his hips. The kiss of air on his skin forced an involuntary shiver but he tried to feign sleep, wanting to see what Erik would do next.  

The was a touch on the bare skin of his back, right in that sensitive place in between his shoulder blades. Charles tried to hide a smile into the pillow as Erik began to trace thin lines over the notches of his spine, under the wings of his shoulders, down into the dip of his lower back. Charles strained, tried to decipher the hidden code of the slow and invisible designs of Erik’s fingers, but they were incomprehensible and above that, so soft and sensual Charles couldn’t remain still a moment longer.

He shifted slightly, untangling his arms from underneath him and rolling over sleepily. Erik’s palm remained on him, firm and grounding, and as he turned it slid across his body, momentum bringing it to rest on his stomach. Erik rubbed gently at the taught skin there, and said, his voice quiet and hoarse with sleep, “Good morning.”

Charles took a moment to gaze up at him. He had never been granted the opportunity to see Erik first thing in the morning, Erik typically slipping away before the sun was even above the horizon. He had pillow creases pressed into his temple and cheek, his hair rumpled and falling over his forehead and Charles realized he had never seen him so at ease, his smile wide and creased in the corners. Charles gave into temptation and reached up to run his fingers through Erik’s hair, pushed it back from his face and relishing the feeling of the smooth strands gliding through his fingers.

Erik grabbed his wrist, lowering Charles’ hand to his mouth to press a kiss against his palm. Charles curled his fingers into the red gold scruff that had grown in across his cheeks over night.

“Morning,” he answered, and when the word came out cracked and broken, he remembered with a blush how loudly he moaned the night before, unleashed and uninhibited.

Erik growled low in his throat and pushed him over, pinning his captured wrist to the mattress next to his head and sliding on top of him with an effortless grace. He bent his head to bite at Charles’ throat and Charles was hit with thrill of arousal that shot from where Erik’s mouth was connected to his skin and flooded through him all the way to his toes. Charles gasped and writhed as Erik nipped him lightly and pressed a kiss against the mark he had left before wriggling down to layer kiss upon kiss across Charles’ collarbones and chest.

Charles’ legs came up naturally to wrap around Erik, cradling him in between his knees so that Erik’s stomach was snug against his hips. He had woken up hard, as he so often did nowadays, and he was aching already where their bodies were pressed together. He asked Erik, breathlessly,

“What was that for?”

Erik released his wrists and ran his hands down Charles’ torso, large palms spreading across his back and pulling him into an arch so he could plant a kiss directly on the place where his ribs fused together. He murmured nonsensically into the skin,

“I’m chasing that blush.” He placed another kiss, this time loud and purposefully wet and smacking, on the sweeping angle of his ribcage.

Charles suddenly realized his face was stretched to the breaking point, smiling helplessly.

“Come here,” he asked softly. Erik tucked his arms more firmly around Charles’ body, hugging him close and biting lightly at skin stretched over his rib.

“Sorry, I’m busy.” Charles reached down and smoothed Erik’s hair back so he could see him grin.

“Please?”

Erik looked up at him, resting his chin against Charles’ ribs, his eyes tracing Charles’ features as his smiled, wide open and beautiful and unlike any version of Erik that Charles had ever seen.

“Why?” Erik teased and Charles curled his fingers into his hair, tugging lightly.

“Because I want to kiss you,” he answered, simple and true. Something fond flickered through Erik’s expression before he untangled his arms from around Charles and surged up to kiss him, bony elbows bumping Charles’ ribs as Charles looped his arms around his neck.

They kissed slowly and languidly in the morning light, their breathing slow and synchronized together and Charles whispered, “I wish every morning could start like this.” Erik kissed the words from his mouth, said, “It can…It will, I promise,” as he pinned Charles’ hands down to the bed, interlocking their fingers and squeezing their hands together in a gesture that was almost unbearably intimate.

Erik broke away finally and nosed along Charles’ cheek as they panted for air.

“Care to try something new today?” he asked, directly against Charles’ ear. Charles was desperately hard and so he didn’t ask what he meant, only nodded eagerly, suppressing the trace of nerves that skittered across his skin. When Erik grinned and kissed him firmly on the mouth before pushing up and away, his excitement was intoxicating enough that Charles felt his nerves melt away, replaced with a swell of eager anticipation.

Erik returned with the same tin from the night before, dipping his fingers in and pulling them out so that the oil dripped off them in a steady, golden stream, extravagant and beautiful in the pale light of the room. He leaned forward to kiss Charles again.

“Open your legs for me, Charles.”

Charles, dizzy and drunk with kisses could only oblige, trusting Erik not to push him too far. He was confused for only a moment when Erik spread the oil on his thighs before the sensation of Erik’s palms on that sensitive flesh became all that he could think about. Soon enough he was breathing heavily, face turned away into the pillow. Charles didn’t know what he planned to do, but when Erik’s hand returned to the tin, Charles hoped his fingers would rub that oil on his cock, aching between his legs.

Instead Erik slicked himself up, an image that was mind-numbingly erotic in itself, before he nudged Charles to roll over onto his side. When Charles hesitated, Erik kissed him again.

“Trust me?”

After all the weeks of recovery, time spent together learning each other’s tiny hidden secrets, he knew now that he trusted Erik more than anyone, even more than Moira who was his first and best friend. And maybe what he felt now, squeezing his heart and filling him to the brim was something more than trust. Strange to realize you love your husband months and months after you’ve married him.

He nodded, and rolled over easily, moaning softly as Erik swiftly tucked himself up behind him, warm skin on skin connection down the entire length of their bodies. His head lolled back as Erik ran his slick hand over his cock, opening himself up for Erik to suck a bruise into the sensitive skin of his neck. He writhed between the two points of contact, pushing closer and away, overcome.

“Erik—“ he panted, reaching up behind him to grip Erik’s hair and hold him close, feeling the reverberation of Erik’s groan against his throat where his mouth was layering kiss after kiss, “please—“

“I’ve got you,” Erik murmured, and his hand left his cock to slip under his thigh. He lifted Charles’ legs apart and shifted his hips forward until Charles could feel his cock, hard and hot and heavy in between in thighs when Erik released him. Reflexively Charles tensed his muscles and felt a rush of pleasure when Erik moaned helplessly in response, his hips twitching forward.

Slowly Erik started a rhythm, rubbing his cock over and over again between Charles’ thighs, the leaking tip of him brushing up against the back of his balls and the base of his own cock, and the feeling of Erik slipping against him so intimately caused yearning, broken sounds to trip and stumble of out his mouth.

When Erik reached over to grip him tight and stoke him, it was all over. He tensed and groaned and spilled over Erik’s fingers, the clench of his body dragging Erik into his climax as well, hips snapping uncontrollably, teeth biting into Charles’ shoulder, smothering the raw, vulnerable sounds wrenched from his mouth.

Slowly their bodies relaxed together, Erik’s arms coming around him to squeeze him tight, sweat cooling on their skin and heartbeats slowing to beat in harmonized time.

“Well, that was certainly something new,” Charles mumbled when his brain was coordinated enough to form words, and Erik’s echoing laughter made the bright thing in his chest blossom and consume him.

***

Afterward, Erik wiped down every spare inch of his body, lingering here and there, at this bend of the elbow, at that shadow of hipbone, focused and intent as though trying to memorize the map of his skin. Charles, lost in a hazy glow, allowed it with only minimal embarrassment, and took the time to examine Erik as well, the lines of his body, the curve of his spine, the elegance of his hands as they trailed water over him like a benediction.

They drifted through the rest of the morning in bed, curled together, speaking in low tones despite their privacy, the still of the room broken when Charles laughed, free and unfettered, feeling as though he had never been so happy, that he might burst if he didn’t let it loudly escape. Moira came for Charles eventually, entering without thinking as she always did now, and promptly turned on her heel at the first glimpse of skin. She quickly ushered Raven and Angel away from the door as they tried to catch a peek over her shoulder and Charles, feeling brash, called out that she could look if she wanted, laughing as she waved at them and mumbled something sarcastic as she closed the door. He laughed until Erik had grabbed him and rolled him over, pinning him in place and matching their smiles together in a kiss.

Later they pulled themselves out of bed, and when Charles moved to go through his sitting room so he could finally put some clothes on, Erik had stopped him with a gentle hand on his wrist. There was a strange, shy hesitance in him as he smiled, but he spoke with a firm conviction as he asked Charles to come and sit with him in his private quarters.

Charles stared at him, confused.

“I thought it wasn’t allowed? Isn’t it tradition?”

Erik smiled and tugged on his hand.

“I want you to.” Slowly Charles nodded, excitement welling up inside his chest as he allowed Erik to pull him through the doorway.

Erik’s sitting room looked much like his own, with darker coloured fabrics and larger, heavier furniture. Erik went to the wardrobe and pulled out one of his own robes for Charles to wear, and the look Erik gave him as he pulled it around himself, too large and slipping off one shoulder, made something hot curl in his stomach.  Erik reached over and tugged the sagging collar back into place, his fingers lingering on a bruise at the base of Charles’ throat as they shared a smile.

Reluctantly Charles broke away and sat down on a low red velvet couch, peering around the room. This was Erik’s space. It felt sacred and he took a moment to breathe it in.

Erik collapsed on the couch next to him with significantly less ceremony, smirking at Charles as though he knew a secret.

“Are you laughing at me?” Charles asked, unable to stop a mirroring smile from spreading. Erik held his hands up innocently, but the smile that stole across his face betrayed him, and Charles felt a strange manic joy rise up in his chest.

To distract himself from the ridiculous swell of emotion, he looked around and saw a stack of books lined up neatly on a low wooden table, different from the towering, unsteady piles in his own room. He reached forward eagerly and snatched one off the top. Erik groaned.

“Great, now I’ve lost you for the rest of the day.” He flopped over on the couch and put his head in Charles’ lap and Charles’ hand went automatically to stroke through his hair. Erik moaned low in his throat, relaxing further into him, and Charles wondered when he became so easy with giving affection, and Erik open to receiving it. He poked Erik in the shoulder with the book.

“I like books, I can’t help it.” He looked at the spine, something on battle strategy by an author he’d never heard of, and commented absently, “They were my only friends for a long time.” Erik’s body went stiff and he tilted his head back to look at Charles upside down, frowning at him. Before he could say anything Charles asked, “Are they not common in Genosha?”

Erik shrugged.

“Not really. Families of nobility have their own libraries, but from a young age most people learn a trade." He said it casually, but Charles could hear the involuntary undertone, the implication that people in Westchester had time to read because of their dilettante lifestyle, while the people of Genosha worked for a living at something practical that contributed to the community as a whole. Charles wasn’t sure he disagreed with him but he didn’t want to discuss it, unwilling to break the magic serenity of the day so far.

“If they could, do you think they’d like to learn to read?” Erik sat up and turned to look at him, sliding his arm along the back of the couch to stroke through Charles’ hair.

“What is this about?” Charles leaned into his touch, turning the book idly over and over in his hands.

“I was just thinking about how Raven and Angel looked at the books from the library, like they wanted to know more.” He shrugged. “I know what that’s like—that kind of thirst for knowledge.” Erik laughed and poked him gently in the temple.

“You’re telling me you don’t already know everything?”

Charles scoffed and pushed at him until Erik caught his hand and kissed his fingers apologetically.

“All I’m saying is that if they wanted to learn, maybe I could teach them.” He looked at Erik carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. “I’ve always wanted to teach. I want to do something useful here.”

Erik smiled at him and something he hadn’t even realized was tense released in his chest and shoulders. He allowed himself to be pulled forward and into a kiss.

“Then you should,” Erik said. “I don’t think the intention was to keep anyone uneducated.” He kissed Charles again. “I think you’d be a great teacher.”

The words sent a racing plume of happiness through Charles’ chest and the conversation dissolved into languor. Soon Charles found himself tucked in between Erik and the back of the couch as they traded lingering caresses and long, drowning kisses as the afternoon wore lazily on. He didn’t think it was possibly to have a more perfect day.

Of course as soon as that thought crossed his mind, the peace of the moment shattered into a thousand tiny pieces as Sebastian Shaw came barging into the room without a knock or a warning.

Surprised by the sudden noise, Erik tumbled them off the couch, his palm firm on Charles’ chest keeping him down and out of the line of fire. When he saw it was Shaw he laughed and wiped a palm down his face.

“Sebastian. You startled me.”

Shaw stood in the center of the room. His face was frozen and unreadable, but when he spoke his anger was obvious.

“What are you doing, Erik? Where have you been all day?” Erik stood at the snap in his voice and Charles followed him, straightening his borrowed robe and uncomfortably aware of how much of his skin was on display.

“I’ve been here,” Erik replied calmly. “I think I’m entitled to a day off, Sebastian, especially since Charles and I never took any time after the wedding to…get to know one another.” Charles could sense the smile suppressed under the words and he swallowed down a laugh. Erik caught his eye and winked at him.

Shaw watched all of this with barely concealed disgust on his face.

“How nice for you.” His tone dripped with enough derision that Erik frowned. “Unfortunately you have duties to attend to. The world doesn’t stop turning because you want to  _sleep_  Erik.”

The word was loaded with double meaning and Charles watched as Erik’s frown deepened, felt the tension in the room thicken palpably. When Erik reached back for him, he didn’t hesitate to slide their palms close and wind their fingers together.

“We were talking, actually, about Charles starting a school.” It came out of nowhere, and because of the tension Charles almost laughed again, knowing that conversation featured rather minutely in the overall events of the day. But Shaw’s eyes narrowed and he managed to hold his tongue while Erik continued,

“Besides, Emma rescheduled my day. I’m sure she has things well in hand.”

Shaw folded his arms across his chest, the cold arch of his eyebrow belying the obvious annoyance underneath.

“Well  _Emma_ ,” he sneered the name “is standing in the hallway awaiting your counsel. Considering she is a valet and not actually running this country, I would suggest you go out there and speak to her.” Erik’s eyes flashed anger at the tone and Sebastian’s mouth only tightened further.

“Though that is only my humble suggestion, your majesty. You are, of course, allowed to do as you please. I only thought your father might expect more from you, ill as he is.” Charles felt Erik flinch, and suspected Shaw saw it as well. It was a cruel thing, to bring the King into the argument so callously when Erik worried about him already at virtually every moment of the day. Cruel, but effective. Erik drew himself up and nodded curtly, glancing at Charles momentarily before sweeping out into the hallway, tightening his robe more securely around his body.

Shaw waited with the same bland, placid expression on his face until the door clicked shut behind Erik, and then like a flash storm, everything changed. Shaw turned on him, his expression erupting with anger like swollen thunder clouds, and before Charles could even register what was happening, Shaw was in his space, towering over him, clutching his arm tight enough that Charles gasped involuntarily.

“Listen to me,” he said, shaking Charles roughly when he squirmed and tried to tug his arm away. Shaw only grasped him tighter, his fingernails cutting into his skin even through the material of his robe. “Listen to me!” he said again, spitting the words with quiet, murderous intent into Charles’ face.

“You will stop distracting him from his work. You will get these ridiculous, flighty notions out of your head, and you will do what you were meant to do—you will warm his bed, and spread your legs, and you will keep your mouth shut otherwise!”

Charles went entirely cold, his body going numb from head to foot. The words rang and clattered inside his mind, but there were so cruel, so unexpected, he barely understood them, as though Shaw had been spitting poison at him in another language altogether. Past the numbness though, past the disbelief, a brewing anger was building up. Charles stroked it, allowed it to grow, and with a mighty pull, wrenched his arm out of Sebastian’s grasp. He stayed in his space, however, refusing to give an inch.

“If you think I’m just going to sit idly by like a piece of furniture for the rest of my life, you are grossly mistaken. Erik doesn’t want that for me, and I would never want it for myself—“

Shaw leaned back as his face twisted in surprise, and then fell into cruel, mocking laughter.

“Oh my dear, is that what you think? That Erik wants to share his rule with you? That the two of you are going to sit side by side with matching crowns?” His mouth curled into a sneer and Charles clenched his hands into fists, dug his nails into his palms until the pain grounded him and kept him calm. “Do you know why Erik agreed to marry you in the first place?” Shaw stepped forward, and Charles, suddenly feeling threatened as the mood in the room darkened and grew tense, look an involuntary step back.

“He hated you. He was physically ill at the thought of marrying you. But he soothed himself with the thought of lulling your people into a sense of security so that when we invaded Westchester, they wouldn’t see us coming.”

Shock and utter despair rose up in Charles, choking and cloying until he felt dizzy, collapsing back onto the couch behind him as the room became unfocused. Shaw sensed the kill was imminent and leaned over him, smiling his sharp toothed hunter’s smile, and Charles realized this was the very first time he had seen him for who and what his was, the man behind the mask: cruel and cold and jagged as a knife.

“Just be glad you were pretty enough that Erik wanted to fuck you instead of killing you while you slept. If you want to remain alive once we’ve taken the throne at Westchester, I suggest that you learn to keep your mouth _shut_.”

He straightened for a long, horrible moment they remained in a grotesque tableau of polite society. To the outside observer they might simply be two men at their leisure, one standing motionless and tall, the other lounged back, trying to keep his hands from shaking, trying not to cry, or vomit, only his pride holding everything together at the ripping seams.

Erik re-entered after what seemed like an eternity and Shaw spoke to him briefly before bowing and taking his leave. Charles couldn’t hear a word of it over the ringing in his ears. He became aware that Erik had knelt down in front of him, his hands reaching out to grip Charles’ fingers, his face riddled with concern.

“Charles?”

Charles desperately wanted everything Shaw had said to be a lie. He wanted to believe in Erik and what they had been building towards, the honesty he felt in the night before and that morning as Erik held him, as he shared more of himself than he ever had before. He wanted so desperately for everything that had happened between them to be true, and he suddenly remembered when Erik had said, “Trust me,” only a handful of hours ago.

And so he asked,

“Are you going to invade Westchester?”

Erik froze, his hands where they were wound with Charles clenching harder for a moment before relaxing with false calm.

“Charles—“ he began, and Charles could see the lie coming, the pat answer that would smooth this over. He wanted to strip Erik down to his bones so that he would be as vulnerable as Charles felt now, as he had felt ever since the first night he lay next to Erik and offered himself up, only to be rejected time and again.

“No, Erik. Were you—“ he could barely say it, could barely force his mouth to form the words, “did you plan to kill me once you had taken over?” Erik gaped at him in shock before his face hardened and grew pale.

“Never Charles. That was never part of it, even before—even before we—did Sebastian say that?“ He looked truly sick at the mere idea, as sick as Charles felt himself, but Charles found he could take no solace in that, no comfort in Erik who had become his place of comfort, not if everything they had now had been built on lies and bloody ambition.

“Did you marry me only to get to my people?” He tried to free his hands, but Erik only clutched him tighter.

“They’re not your people Charles! Not anymore! You’re nothing like them—“

“No, what? What does that mean? They deserve to die, but I don’t? They’re still people Erik!”

“People that killed my mother, Charles!” Charles froze. Erik’s mother, as always a keg of black powder sitting between them, liable to explode with one misstep and Charles didn’t know whether to pull Erik closer, or push him away and give him space. He held his breath, waiting for more.

“When you first came here, I hated you,” Erik said finally, holding Charles so tightly his fingertips were white. Charles felt his heart crumbling into misshapen pieces in his chest. Erik caught his expression and Charles suddenly wished he had learned to emulate the icy, expressionless exterior his mother had perfected. His face had always been resolutely easy to read.

Erik let go of his hands and grasped his face, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. “No, Charles, just hear me out,” he begged. “Please?” His voice was so desperate, so broken and unlike Erik that Charles could only nod, the movement bumping his nose against Erik’s. Erik rubbed their noses together, stroking his hands down Charles’ cheeks again and again before he took a breath and continued.

“I though you would be everything I was taught to hate for so long after my mother died. I was angry, Charles, and blind, and my life had been moments of unhappiness flaring up around this large, ragged hole she left behind. The thought that one of her murderers was coming to sleep next to me at night—I thought I would go mad.”

Charles opened his mouth to protest, pulling back from Erik’s grasp, but Erik looked so open and shattered that Charles held his tongue and allowed him to go on.

“But then it was you Charles. And you…I can’t even express to you how I’ve come to feel about you. I love you, Charles. You’re nothing like them, nothing like I thought you would be, and everything I ever dreamed for myself. Please. Please understand.”

Charles slumped on the couch, staring at an indiscernible point just over Erik’s shoulder. The revelation that Erik loved him burned bright in his chest, thrilling and brilliant. A few hours ago it would have meant everything to know Erik felt the same way he did. Now the weight of everything else soured the feeling, smothering it.

He knew, had known since first meeting Erik, that his mother’s death had left darkness in him that cried out of retribution. He had witnessed it before growing up unseen and alone in Westchester, watched as men and woman who had fought and lost during the war became ghosts that haunted the palace halls. He had always wished he could give them comfort, but didn’t know how to touch that dark place inside them.

He also had always had the inkling that Sebastian Shaw was fanning this emotion in Erik, pushing him onwards with venomous words in his ears, though he did not anticipate the extent of his hatred and of Erik’s pain. Maybe he was as naïve as Shaw thought him to be. He certainly never saw this coming, foolishly enraptured with his new life, his new friends, with Genosha and Erik. Most of all with Erik.

“I do understand,” he said finally. “You lived on hate for so long. It’s almost a comfort to know why you were so cold in the beginning…but Erik, you have to understand this as well: I  _am_  like them.” Erik shook his head in protest, but Charles pushed on, “No, I am—they’re just people, many of them as hurt by the war as you, all of them, all of Genosha subjected to more pain if you go to war again.” Erik was silent, his expression stricken. Charles unfolded their hands and pressed a kiss to each of Erik’s palms, choosing his words carefully.

“I know you’re still angry and that you want to fight—that you want revenge—but so many people died during the war. It was a messy, awful, horrible war and so many people died, on both sides of it. Who can be held accountable for your mother’s death, and the deaths of all the others? If not me, than surely not all of Westchester?”

They sat in silence for a long moment before Charles unlocked their hands and got to his feet unsteadily. He brushed past Erik who stood quickly, reaching out for him, calling his name, but Charles didn’t stop until he got to the door.

“I need some time to think about all of this,” he said, unable to look at Erik and his plaintive gaze, his outstretched hands. “I think we both do. I’ll see you later tonight.”

Bereft, confused, a mess of tangled emotions, each one jangling against the other, fighting for dominance, he turned and left the room, shutting the door


	13. Chapter 13

He needed to get away. For the first time since he arrived at the palace the thought burned in his mind, and though it broke his heart, he went to the one place he knew Erik would not follow.

He went to the library.

The smell of paper and leather and sanded ink was achingly familiar, but even this beloved room could not comfort him. His stomach was rioting, his legs weak, his entire being twisting and sick. Blindly, he stumbled over to the couch and gripped onto the back of it with white knuckled fingers, trying to breathe. He very carefully made his way around it, lowering himself gingerly onto the sunken cushions, one hand pressed to his chest as though it might force his racing heart to slow down and rest.

In the windowed ceiling the sky had faded to a dusty rose and he realized with astonishment that it was evening. Had the dream of Erik, the touch of his fingers and mouth, the warmth of their bed, really been the same day as this sudden heartache?

How quickly things had changed.

For a moment he despaired as utter betrayal overwhelmed him, but he breathed through it, in and out, until it subsided enough that he didn’t feel like drowning. Erik was confused and he had been led astray, but deep down Charles believed that he had never truly betrayed him. Not at the heart of it all.

He hung onto the thought like a buoy and waited until the panic and hurt dulled into a distant throb in his chest. He didn’t want to let the fragile bloom of the morning disintegrate under this new knowledge. He wanted to hold onto it, to cup it in his hands and let it grow. He wanted Erik to keep his promise that every day Charles would experience the kind of love and affection he’d only briefly tasted that morning.

Time passed and he curled up on the couch, still ensnared in confusion. The library, cold and growing dim as the sun set, offered him no answers. He lay still and allowed the room to darken around him, shadows swallowing him up as his mind churned away, replaying over and over again the events of the last few hours. With perfect clarity he could hear Shaw’s voice, menacing and cruel, could remember Erik’s desperation and latent childhood anger eating him away from the inside, his anguish as he tore open all of his old wounds for Charles to see.

Soon enough he was shrouded in night, and still he had no answers.

As he curled himself tighter into a ball on the couch his eyes fell upon the doorway he had only used once, the one that connected the King’s quarters to the library through a narrow stone passageway. He thought of the King, who had always been so kind to him, who had said Charles reminded him of his wife and offered him this sanctuary. He couldn’t imagine that Jakob, whose reputation was built upon his gracious and just heart, who had gone above and beyond to broker peace with Westchester, would have anything to do with Shaw’s plans of invasion and domination and war.

He sat up abruptly and raked his hands through his disheveled hair. Even if the King couldn’t give him answers, he might be willing to give him counsel. And no one knew Erik better than his father.

Unlocking the door, he lit a lantern and held it out to illuminate the hallway. The air was as damp and dusty as he remembered and set a chill running over the back of his neck. He hurried down the corridor and raised his hand to knock on the door before he remembered that King Jakob was still ill and would most likely be taking his dinner in bed. He waivered, wondering if he should bother the man when he was sick, but Jakob had invited him to dinner in his quarters before and the urge to speak with him, to feel the balm of his advice, outweighed any worry about decorum.

He set the lantern on the ground and unlocked the door from the inside. The inner room's illumination spilled onto him in the black of the corridor, a slice of light that blinded him momentarily, and he stopped, frozen, when he heard a familiar voice speaking from within. The voice was more pleasant and cordial than the last time he had heard it, but he recognized it nonetheless.

It was Sebastian Shaw.

“…bring it to you momentarily, sir,” he was saying, his tone warm and polite. Charles leaned forward, peering through the crack in the door, trying to see his face. The words sounded like concealed lies, his pleasant tone ringing false. There was no way that this man who spoke with such tenderness was the real Shaw. And there it was, reflected in the sharp lines around his mouth, a malicious glimmer. Sebastian Shaw was nothing like what he pretended to be.

He was leaning over a low table and a tray loaded with various bowls, one with fruit, another with bread, the largest radiating lingering curls of steam. Charles watched as he arranged the bowls neatly on the tray and turned to the man standing next to him, one of the King’s own valets, sending him away with a smooth gesture.

“I’ll take it to him.”

Shaw watched as the valet bowed and took his leave, and when the large double doors clicked closed behind him, pitched his voice louder.

“It’s a shame Erik couldn’t join us. I tried speaking to him about shirking his duties, but he’s been less than agreeable lately.”

His face twisted around the words as though they were sour in his mouth, and Charles’ stomach clenched, knowing Shaw was referring to the time Erik had taken to spend with him. Did he really hate Charles so much, that the mere mention of him was distasteful?

The King’s voice drifted through the open doors at the end of the room, presumably already tucked into bed.

“Leave him be Sebastian. He’s just caught up in Charles, that’s all. I remember how it was when I first married.” He sounded frail, weaker than Charles had ever heard him. For a moment he regretted coming here and thought perhaps his own problems could wait until the King was well. He felt a sharp influx of regret and shame that he hadn’t come to visit Jakob before now, when his own problems had seemed paramount.

His thoughts in turmoil, he watched as Shaw, murmuring a non-committal response to the King’s fond words, pulled out a vial from within his robes. It flickered in the light, clear glass revealing a golden liquid that seemed lit from within, its core a changeable blood red.

For a moment time stood still.

When the world rushed back in, his breath caught in his throat and strangled him, the ground suddenly uneven beneath his bare feet. He had seen such a vial before, had held it in his own hands as he dug with great delight through Hank’s medical bag, looking with eager curiosity at the clumps of dried herbs, the little tins of powder, the leather pouches holding vials of different coloured liquid, some full, some almost empty, thick and viscous and inherently fascinating. He remembered now how Hank had plucked that particular vial out of his fingers as Charles had held it up to the light to admire its colour, breathing a sigh of relief as he cradled it carefully and tucked it safely back into its pouch.

“Not that one, Charles,” he said, “It’s dangerous.”

 _Dangerous_. And now Shaw was unscrewing it and pouring one drop, and then another into the King’s soup.

Charles’ brain whirled, all the pieces snapping together into a horrifying conclusion that he could barely comprehend. It was too large, too unfathomable, so atrocious it was almost unspeakable. Was it possible that he was standing in the dark, watching as Sebastian Shaw slowly assassinated the King of Genosha?

He stood frozen, his hand still on the doorknob, the door still partially open as his heart tried to carve its way out of his chest. His first reaction was to barge in there and knock the tray onto the ground, spill the soup before one spoonful made its way to the King’s mouth.

Reason held him in check, whispering that Shaw would seize him as soon as he entered the room and his death, or capture, would accomplish nothing. If Shaw had been poisoning the King for weeks, something he could only assume from the King’s gradually weakened condition, it was possible that one more night might not do him any serious harm. The better choice would be to close this door and retreat, to go and find Erik, or Moira, go and find  _help_ and quickly, someone to witness, someone capable of capturing Shaw or catching him in the act--

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just leave Erik’s father here to be poisoned. His own life, short and pathetic and meaningless as it was, surely that life was forfeit.

As he stood and agonized, Shaw tucked the vial safely away within the folds of his clothing and adjusted the bowls once more before lifting the tray, turning to perpetrate his treachery. Charles wavered on the razor’s edge, summoning his courage to leap out and betray himself.

And then the decision was taken from him.

As Shaw turned, something, some flicker of light or movement drew his eye to the door where Charles still stood half hidden. For one horrifying moment his eye snagged on Charles, and they froze, locked into a mutually unrelenting gaze.

Shaw was the first to move, whirling around and slamming the tray on the table.

“Guards!”

The roar of his voice cut through Charles, spurring him into motion. He slammed the door and turned the key to lock it behind him before tripping over his feet as he turned and raced down the hallway. Once he was sealed inside the silence of the library he took a moment to catch his breath, wheezing for air against the smooth stone wall. His mind was flying over options and possibilities: running and getting help, returning to the King’s chamber to fight. Who knew what villainy Shaw had planned, how many guards he had poisoned against the King, against Erik--

Erik. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to quell the panic that pulsed at his throat and behind his eyes. He needed to get to Erik. He breathed out slowly, and then again, trying to race the rapid pace of his heart before he pushed off the door and ran, dodging the couch and chair, bursting through the door that led to the separate, private corridor, the one that exited close to his own bedroom.

The only thought in his mind was getting to Erik and safety but when he opened the final door and stepped into the hallway outside their quarters, he stopped, paralyzed for a second with fear. Distantly he could hear the sound of a dozen pairs of boots on the ground and the clang of armor coming closer and closer, marching in haste. They were close and there was no doubt in his mind that they were coming for him.

He hesitated briefly, debated locking himself back in the tunnel, but he knew he would be trapped like a rabbit in a warren with hounds breathing down the tunnel at both ends. Instead he darted forward, racing away from the boots and crashing through the doors to his sitting room.

It was empty and cold inside and he quickly made his way to the bedroom, which was similarly vacant. His heart thumped painfully in his chest at the sight of the bedclothes, still mussed and half pooled on the ground, evidence of his morning bliss that was so very far away now. There was no time for melancholy, so he turned away and headed towards Erik’s private quarters.

When he opened the doors, Erik was gone.

His robe was tossed over the couch, his closet doors flung open as though he had dressed in haste, but the hearth was dark and the room was abandoned. Charles stood rooted to the spot, his mind spinning away in all directions, his hands twisted tightly together as he tried to plan out his next move.

He jumped when there was a sudden banging against the door, the sound loud and abruptly violent. The soldiers called for Erik, for him, for someone to open the door, pounding again and again against the wood until Charles thought it might shatter beneath the weight.

There was a long pause and the low mutter of voices, and then a thunderous wallop against the door. It scared Charles so badly he almost fell over, but instead he scrambled backwards towards the doorway back into their bedroom. They were breaking the door down, he realized, and looking around it was suddenly clear that this room was no longer a safe haven.

Turning, he raced back to his sitting room. They were pounding against his door as well, and there was no time for thought, no time to gather clothing or weapons, only to push aside the heavy tapestry and wrench open the tiny door Moira had showed him, the one that connected to the spiraling staircase that would eventually lead him outside. It was the same one they followed the first day she took him to the seashore.

Moira. He wished she were here now. He had never felt so frightened, so alone.

He had just shut the door behind him when the door to his bedroom splintered open in a horrible crack of split wood. Charles clamped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out, and when he heard the soldiers enter he fled, racing down the staircase blindly, trying to keep one foot ahead of the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn’t know what would happen if the soldiers caught him, if Shaw caught him. He only knew that every inch of his being was screaming for him to  _get away_.

At the bottom of the stairs there was an alcove and he paused there but heard no boots or voices calling his name. To his right was a long hallway that would eventually lead him outside, and to his left, passage into the kitchens. He was yearning to race down that hallway, to escape into the night air, but there would be guards at the end of it and he didn’t know if they would be friend or foe. And what he needed right now, more then anything, was a friend.

He opened the door to his left carefully, sticking his head inside and trying to gage by sound alone how busy the kitchens were. His heart swelled and nearly spilled over as a voice drifted over to his ears, singing sweetly above the clatter of pots and pans. He leaned in farther and sure enough, there was Sean, up to his elbows in dishwater, alone except for one young boy who was mopping the floor after the dinner rush. He was in luck. The rest of the servants would be having their dinner now, gathered together around the long wooden table in the servant’s quarters as was their nightly tradition. With a little more luck he might sneak in unseen.

Closing the door softly behind him, he crept silently over to Sean who sang away, merrily oblivious.

“Sean,” he said, trying to keep his voice as soft as possible, though he still caused the boy to yelp, splashing soapy water over the lip of the sink and onto the floor with a splatter. When he saw it was Charles standing next to him, he laughed, relieved.

“Your majesty! You startled me!” He turned to go back to the dishes, but Charles gripped his damp sleeve, feeling exposed and vulnerable from the commotion, looking over his shoulder to see if they had drawn any attention. When no one came to investigate from the other room, and the serving boy leaning sleepily on his broom ignoring them as much as his duties, he leaned in close.

“I need your help, Sean, please—“ The desperation in his voice must have been palpable, Sean’s normally cheerful face becoming suddenly serious and paler than usual.

“What is it, Charles?” He took his hands out of the water and twisted them until Charles’ hand was clasped between his wet palms. Charles clung onto him and felt, for the first time since he stood in the darkness outside the King’s bedroom, that he had a friend, an ally. That he wasn’t standing alone.

“I need you to get me out of the palace.”

***

Never had his trust been so well founded. Sean asked no questions, only pulled him close and led him through a winding set of rooms, storage it looked like, and pantries, stacks of tinned food and straw sacks of flour, hanging herbs and dried meat. It all passed in a blur, and then Sean was pulling a large ring of brass keys from his pocket and fumbling through them, finding the right one and unlocking an unobtrusive door, partially hidden behind a collection of barrels brimming with seed.

The night air on his face was bracing and he took a moment to stand and breathe, to feel the grass, cool and damp on his bare feet. Sean shut and locked the door behind them and gripped the key ring close to his chest, bouncing toe to toe, nearly vibrating with tension.

“What now?”

Charles looked around at the palace grounds, dark and nearly indecipherable in the dark. Sean didn’t know the details of the situation, but he had picked up on Charles’ fear and Charles could feel it radiating back at him. For some reason having someone else there, someone who was also afraid and who Charles now felt responsible for, made him calmer, his brain clicking through options without blind panic muddling up his thoughts.

In the distance he thought he could make out the looming shape of the stables and it seemed as though the moon was illuminating it, a finger of light guiding his way.

“This way,” he murmured to Sean, setting off across the grounds warily. Out in the open space he felt helpless, as though there were eyes everywhere, watching him, even under the cover of night. He moved as quickly as he could, skin crawling, a fluttering panic in his stomach that an unseen villain might lunge out and lay poisoned hands on them, cutting them to pieces.

It felt like an eternity before they reached the tall wooden walls of the stable, though it must only have been a collection of minutes, each step full of hesitancy and trepidation and the fear of being caught out. He felt like a fugitive in his own home, and the thought that Genosha was no longer safe made him feel uncomfortably frail.

If there were no more safe places, than he would have to gather his allies together, and he would have to fight as best he could. He only hoped he had some friends left, and that they would be willing to stand with him and offer him sanctuary, as fleeting and temporary as it might be.

He pushed open the stable doors and slipped inside, beckoning Sean in after him. Their presence was noted almost immediately by the horses who whinnied in greeting, tossing their manes and snorting at them from over the stall doors. He tried to shush them, rubbing his palm over the velvety nose of the closest, but all too soon he felt the sharpness of a blade at his back and a voice, barely audible with anger.

“Stealing horses is illegal, friend. I’m in my rights to cut you down where you stand.”

Charles felt unaccountably relieved and never more glad to have someone threaten his life. Slowly he raised his hands and glancing next to him, saw Sean do the same.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he said, turning slowly to see Logan looking down the long blade of a broadsword, his wide calloused fingers wrapped unerringly around the brass hilt. Even in the darkness, they were close enough that Charles could see his eyes widen in recognition, his mouth hung open in shock.

“Charles?” he asked, dropping the sword to his side, glancing over to Sean and then back again. “What the hell are you doing here?” His eye flickered down Charles’ body, “And what the hell are you wearing?”

In his single-minded mission to flee from Shaw, Charles had completely forgot he was only in Erik’s robe. He wrapped it tighter around himself feeling painfully vulnerable and when he opened his mouth to explain, the words wouldn’t come. Something about Logan standing there, familiarly gruff and solid and smirking at his embarrassment, made the last hour or so come flooding back in an overwhelming wave. Abruptly, horrifyingly, he thought he might weep.

“Logan,” he said. It was all he could get out, but it was enough, the broken word weighted with all of the emotion currently swallowing him down. The smirk slid off Logan’s face and he came forward, clapping a hand onto Charles’ shoulder and then wrapping his arms around him when Charles collapsed again his chest.

“Hey—hey kid.” He awkwardly patted Charles on the back, and Charles squeezed his eyes shut and tried to find his center once again, thankful that Logan seemed prepared to ignore the dampness that was slowly spreading across his dusty shirt.

“It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.”


	14. Chapter 14

Ten minutes later, they were ensconced in Logan’s office, a small room of mismatched but comfortable furniture that smelled strongly of cigars. Charles, wrapped in a rough horse blanket, breathed in the smell of dried hay and tobacco and felt comforted. As soon as Logan had pushed him down on the sunken leather chair that sat behind a desk used less for paperwork and more for cards, the entire story had spilled from him, a torrent of words, from Shaw’s treachery in the King’s bedroom to Sean’s successful escape route out of the kitchen.

Throughout, Sean had grown paler and paler, sinking down onto low stool and wrapping his scarred chef’s hands around his knees. Logan leaned against the wall across from him, and the strength of his expression, clouded as it was in smoke, sustained Charles throughout the recollection.

When he was finished he sagged forward, his spine curving over until his shoulders were close to his ears. He felt as though an era had passed in a handful of hours and reliving it made something within his chest release, his body drooping as whatever mettle had been supporting his spine evaporated into the night air.

He did not feel relieved or safe. With a dread that grew in him like a poisoned bloom with thorns, he feared that he had pulled Logan and Sean down with him into this mess. That he had placed a sword above their heads, and it was only a matter of time before it swung and ended them all.

Still, he couldn’t help the small, selfish side of his heart that was glad of the shared burden. The look of rage on Logan’s face gave him a sense of courage and enabled him to sit a bit straighter, strength welling into the hollows of his bones.

“I’m not going to ask you if you’re sure Charles, but…you know what this means, right?”

Charles could only look at him in silence. What more was there to say? Every word he had already spoken ensured that there would be bloodshed in the not too distant future. Genosha was his home, was the place where he had been given love and family, something he had been missing his entire life but hadn’t realized until the holes inside him were full and brimming. He was afraid of what was to come, but for Erik and Jakob, Moira and Raven, Sean, Angel, Hank, Logan and everyone here who had made Genosha a home for him, he was willing to fight. Willing to die. He could only hope that those he loved would escape unscathed.

“Right,” Logan mumbled. He pulled a match from his breast pocket and lit it with a flick of his fingers, touching the flame to the end of the cigar already clenched between his teeth. He inhaled slowly and Charles pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, watching him as his mind worked, his eyes distant, his thoughts a mystery.

Finally he exhaled a heavy, smoke filled breath, and looked to Charles. His gaze was sharp and pointed and full of a burden Charles hated himself for bringing to Logan’s door.

“Right—here’s what we’re going to do. First of all, we’re going to get you some clothes—can’t have you running around the palace grounds in nothing but your skin.” He smiled as Charles blushed and sputtered, trying to come up with a suitable excuse.

“Then,” he continued, ignoring Charles’ garbled explanation, “we’re going to go and find Moira. She’ll know who to trust.” That Moira was trustworthy went unsaid, and for a single aching moment Charles yearned for her, her steadiness and security. He nodded eagerly.

“Yes, and Erik. We have to find Erik.”

There was a pause in which Logan and Sean exchanged an unsubtle look.

“Charles…” Sean hesitated. “Maybe we should consider the possibility that the Prince…well, he trained under the Hertzog for his entire life.” Charles looked at him, the implication of his words incomprehensible. After a moment of awkward tension stringing between them, Sean flashed Logan a pleading look. Logan’s expression melted with uncharacteristic gentleness.

“He means Erik might be in this with Shaw.”

Charles felt a great anger swell up inside his chest.

“No.” Logan and Sean exchanged another look. Charles had had enough of this discussion happening over his head, enough of people disregarding him as something frail, something naïve to be protected, something too stupid to exist in a world of murderous intent, of politics and ambition. That was what Shaw thought of him and he felt he might explode with the desire to prove him wrong.

“No,” he said again, cutting Sean off before he could speak again. Both men looked surprised at his sharp tone. “Erik might be many things, might have treated me poorly in the past because he was misguided or confused--but I know him and he would never, ever, endanger the life of his father.” Logan looked skeptical, and Charles repeated, “He wouldn’t,” with a finality and severity that eventually Logan nodded his ascent.

“So we find Moira and the Prince,” Sean said into the silence that followed, and Charles took a deep breath, a large swallowing of air in the calm before the swell of a great storm.

***

In the end, they barely made it out of the stables.

After Charles had dressed himself in some of Logan’s clothes, trousers rolled at the ankles, too-large shirt flopping over his hands, he and Logan had watched as Sean disappeared into the inky blackness of the night, off to the barracks where Moira would be playing cards with the other soldiers.

They had arranged to meet in the far fields, where they might confer in secret and under moonlight and decide their next steps. Charles only hoped that Moira would be able to dredge up enough support from amongst her fellow men at arms. He worried that Shaw had managed to poison the troops, garnering support with his valiant war record and clever tongue.

He was hoping to find Erik at the hidden beach, and while he felt some guilt for sharing Erik’s secret hideaway, that guilt was overwhelmed by the almost manic need to find his husband. He was desperate to lay hands on him and share all of his horrible news so they might align themselves against Shaw before he got his claws into Erik and managed to pour more lies into his ears.

Or worse: a literal poison, fed to Erik the same way it had been fed to his father, only quicker and stronger, getting rid of King Jakob’s line once and for all, all because Charles had forced his hand—

The thought heightened the frantic fear in his chest to a palpable hammering and he had tugged at Logan’s arm, pulled him from the safety of the stables out into the night.

Out into the open where Shaw was waiting for them.

They sprung out of the darkness like the demons that haunted the night in stories Charles had read as a boy, and for a moment he thought his heart might stop. Torches were lit, blinding in the moon-shrouded night and what emerged from the black was somewhat worse than demons.

Logan gripped him by the collar and threw Charles behind his body, but in the sudden illumination Charles could see they were surrounded. Firelight flickered off the red robes of the royal guard, their swords at the ready, a ring of sharp metal pointed in their direction.

“A valiant effort Horse Master, but I’m afraid you’ll find yourself outnumbered.” The voice cut through the air towards them, familiar and seductive before the light caught the outline of his form. Shaw looked just as he had when Charles had seen him last, still dressed in black, still cool and confident, though Charles now knew the venomous deceit that oozed beneath the polished veneer.

“Maybe so,” Logan growled, “but some of you are going down before I do.“ He raised his sword and a clattering echo of metal followed as the soldiers prepared to defend themselves. Charles was suddenly blinded by a vision of Logan dead and bloodied on the ground, dead because of Charles. He couldn’t allow it.

“No,” he said, surprised himself at how calm his voice sounded, how steady his hand was as he placed it on Logan’s and pushed his sword to point towards the ground.

“Charles,” Logan muttered under his breath, loud enough that only Charles would hear the question in it, the disagreement. Charles stepped forward, placing himself between Shaw and Logan, and Logan’s angry sigh told him that was answer enough.

“Very noble Charles,” Shaw said with a smile. “I always took you to be a simpering child. I expected much less.”

Charles let the words roll off of his skin like water, allowed the welling rage to dissipate in his chest. Instead of lashing out, striking a physical blow that would only end with his own blood in the grass, he fought back the only way he knew how. Slowly, and with great ceremony he executed a short bow, one that signified greeting to a person of a lower status.

“Sebastian,” he said, and there it was, his rebellious act in one movement and a simple word. He could not fight these men, not with strength of arms, but he had been raised in Westchester. If he had learned anything at his mother’s knee, it was how to insult someone with the subtlety of courtly arts. And If he were about to be cut down, at least he would go down fighting the only way he knew how.

It wasn’t a sword blow, but it was enough to crack Shaw’s smug façade, to make those bland eyes sharpen and smiling mouth crumble into a furious line.

In an instant he was on Charles, gripping him by his shirt, twisting another hand into his hair and pulling on it painfully, bending Charles’ body into a bow and bearing him down to his knees. Charles clenched his teeth together, trying to keep any shout or moan of pain from escaping his lips and giving Shaw the satisfaction of seeing him in agony. Shaw shook him, hard, wrenching his body backwards further as he pushed their faces close together.

“Listen to me: you’re finished. You’re dead just like that old bastard, only you’re going to go quicker and in much. More. Pain.” He punctuated each word with another jerk on Charles hair and Charles’ hands came up to clutch at Shaw’s fingers, tangled painfully close to his scalp.

“You’re not going to ruin everything, not after all these years—“

“What the hell is going on here?!”

The voice broke through Shaw’s tirade, and Charles’ heart nearly exploded, a mix of relief and anguish and panic surging up in him all at once. From his position on the ground he could see Erik pushing through the soldiers, whose swords and feet wavered at the sudden arrival of their Prince.

Shaw released Charles’ hair, but kept his grip on Charles’ shirt, standing and pulling at Charles’ body until his knees were almost barely on the ground.

“Erik,” he gasped out, and Erik looked as anguished as Charles felt, his eyes flickering from Charles to Shaw and back again. He started forward, reaching out to remove Shaw’s grip from Charles’ shirt, when Shaw spoke up.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way, your majesty.”

Erik froze, hands close to Charles, and Charles wanted nothing more than to pull away from Shaw, to throw himself at Erik and cling to him. He wanted Erik to tell him that everything would be alright, but one look at Erik’s face told him he would receive no comfort, not now when Erik looked so confused, like he was fraying apart at the seams.

“Find out about what?”

“Erik-“ Charles tried, but Shaw slapped him soundly across the face with the back of his hand, the large ring on his finger with the ostentatious black stone breaking open the skin of his cheek and sparking stars through the darkness that encroached on his vision.

“Sebastian!” Erik shouted and lunged forward towards Shaw, but Shaw kept his grip on Charles as he sagged backwards, stunned.

“He’s made a cuckold of you.” Erik stopped in his tracks, his face a frozen mask of anguish and confusion.

“What?”

“He’s been sleeping with the Horse Master for weeks, and it was only tonight that we caught him in the act—“

Charles shook himself from his swoon, horror and disbelief growing in his mind like a black seed.

“Erik, no—“

“Silence!” Shaw roared in his face, flecks of spittle showering down across his cheeks. When he turned to Erik again, his face was a false mask of sympathy and grief.

“I am sorry to be the one to bring you such grievous news my Lord. But here is your evidence. The two of them together in the dead of night, and your husband, wearing the other’s clothes.” He released Charles then, who slumped to the ground and peered up at Erik. Erik looked like the entire world was caving in around him as he took in Logan and then Charles, his gaze taking in the too-large clothes, the shirt collar so huge it stubbornly slipped off Charles’ shoulder.

“Charles,” Erik started, his voice broken, but Shaw interrupted, gesturing at his men to grab hold of Charles and Logan both. Charles watched as Shaw moved close to Erik, his face composed into the perfect recreation of paternal sorrow and condolence.

“You know what the punishment is for infidelity within a royal marriage, my lord.”

Erik said nothing, only stood with his eyes locked onto Charles. Charles tried to force their minds together, tried to tell Erik with his eyes alone that he could never be with another person, that he loved him, that he was frightened for Erik’s life.

And he could still feel Erik’s eyes burning into him as the guards tied his hands together and dragged him away into the night.

***

Later, in the dark, in the damp, in the silence of a cold, unforgiving cell deep underground, Charles asked Logan through the bars separating them,

“What  _is_  the punishment for infidelity in a royal marriage?”

After a long moment punctuated only by the incessant drip, drip, drip of water off the stone floor in some dark corner close by, Logan answered:

“Death.”


	15. Chapter 15

Charles had no way of knowing how much time had passed. Most likely only a handful of hours had slipped away, the remainder of that horrible night when his precious dream had burst into pieces to be scattered in the grass. It felt like an eternity, a long extended nightmare of endless black and cold, his weary bones grinding together on the hard ground, his weary heart swollen and broken in his chest. 

He and Logan had not spoken much for fear of solidifying the charges against them, but the man was a warm comfort in the cell next to him, the smell of him permeating through the bars, cigar smoke and fresh hay. Logan’s breathing too, it lulled him, low and heavy in the darkness, and the only sound Charles could hear aside from the changing of the guards in the corridor outside, clanking metal and leather boot heels.

If not for Logan, Charles thought he might go mad, as desperate as he was for a friendly face and the light of morning, for the heat of his bed and Erik’s arms around him, something he had only just won, now swiftly lost in the machinations of a day.

After an unquantifiable amount of time there was a change in the rhythm of the prison gloom. Voices sounded in the distance, strange and indistinguishable in the hollow echo of the stone hallway, and layered over one another as they were in escalating anger.

The jumble of voices grew closer and with them a flicker of flame that widened and cast light off the narrow walls. Charles squinted and threw his arm in front of his face, the brightness jarring and painful after so long in pitch black. There was a jangle of keys, and a man’s voice, rude and admonishing, 

“You have five minutes.”

And another, stern and achingly familiar,

“And you will retire to the end of the hall, as was discussed Mortimer. Or shall I take that purse away?”

A grumble and a clink of coins, and peeking through his fingers, Charles could see the dark haired guard clutch something closer to his chest before he turned and stalked away, leaving the door open, and Moira standing in the void. 

She turned, and the rigidity of her face melted into worry and relief as she rushed toward him, collapsing on her knees by his side and clutching him awkwardly to her chest, fingers gripping him so tight he thought they might break his skin. He held on to her just as tightly, and to his dismay, choked a sob into the thick fabric covering her shoulder, something sick and heartbroken rattling loose from his chest.

She said nothing about his tears, only held him and whispered fiercely into his hair,

“I should never have left you alone.” He struggled clumsily away from her.

“No. No Moira, this isn’t your fault.”

She shook her head, “It was my duty Charles—I have failed in my duty.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off, smile weak and wavering. 

“We don’t have time for this—Mortimer has given us only five minutes to tend to your wounds,” She gestured, Charles noticed for the first time the two cloaked figures standing behind her, one of whom lowered his hood and revealed himself as Hank, raising his familiar medical bag with a rueful smile.

 “I doubt Charles will want to waste his time with me,” he said quietly and Charles was confused until the other figure removed the hood obscuring his eyes, the scarf shadowing that familiar mouth, that sharp jaw.

He stood for a moment staring down at Charles, his eyes just as unfathomable as they had been on the day of their first meeting on the steps outside the Palace, Erik angry and closed off, Charles so nervous and tentatively excited about his life to come in a new and beautiful city by the sea. Now, battered and frozen and aching like he had aged a lifetime in only a few months, Charles did not feel one ounce the boy that had arrived in Genosha, though Erik seemed as untouchable now as he had on that first day.

And then something broke in the stifled air between them and Erik melted, sunk to his knees, one hand reaching out for him. 

“Charles.” He sounded so broken, so full of sorrow that Charles could only reach out in return. He pulled his protesting body off the hard stone floor and crawled into Erik’s embrace, clinging to him as he had clung to Moira, only instead of an awkward mismatch of boney limbs and hard angles, he and Erik seemed to fit together like two halves of the same whole, separated and reunited and stronger together. 

Suddenly frantic, he pushed back, looked up at Erik in panic.

“Erik—you know I would never—that Logan and I are only—“ but Erik shushed him, smoothing soothing thumbs across his cheeks and collecting the unnoticed tears clinging to Charles’ face.

“Charles, I know. I know.” There was a huff of laughter in the cell behind them.

“Good thing—Prince or not, I would tear the—“

“Logan, enough.” Moira’s voice was hard and final, but when Charles looked up at her, she had her hand tucked through the bars and her fingers curled in the fabric of Logan’s shirt, a hesitant smile on her face as Logan’s hand came up to cover hers. 

When Charles looked back to Erik that broken look had returned to his gaze and his hands tightened on either side of Charles’ face.

“Charles, Sean and Moira, they came and found me after—after—“ he swallowed and continued, his voice cracking. “They told me what you had seen, in my father’s room. Is it true?”

Charles’ hands came up to smooth over Erik’s cheeks in return, as if in compensation for his answer and its painful truth. 

“Yes.”

Erik’s eyes fluttered shut and his head tilted forward as though he could no longer support it, his forehead knocking against Charles’ lightly. Charles gripped him harder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against Erik’s mouth. He meant the words to encompass everything: Jakob’s illness, the remembrance of the Queen’s death, the betrayal of a man Erik had seen as a mentor, a friend, a secondary father, and for the fact that everything was about to change, and nothing Erik had known would ever be the same.

They took a moment and grieved for what had been.

“No,” Erik finally breathed, “no, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you’re here Charles. I didn’t know the lengths of Sebastian’s treachery, but I knew when he accused you—I knew something was wrong. I never guessed…“

“I know. It’s alright.” He pressed a firm kiss upon Erik’s mouth, though it hurt his wounded face and he found he couldn’t repress a pained hiss. 

“Hank,” Erik said, and in an instant Hank was kneeling by Charles’ side, cool ointment on a clean cloth at the ready. Erik eased Charles away, though they were both reluctant to let go of one another. Erik held his hand when Hank pressed the cloth against his face. It hurt, a sharp pain rocketing through his body, causing him to cry out and squeeze Erik’s fingers together. 

“We don’t have much time,” Moira said, glancing over her shoulder at where Mortimer loitered, out of earshot and out of sight, but a palpable presence nonetheless. 

“What do we do? What’s our plan?” Charles asked, and when he looked to Erik, he saw his answer written in anguish on the lines of his face.

“You have to leave me here.” Charles said into the silence that followed his question, and Erik pressed his fingers between his large palms and nodded. Charles breathed in a shuttering breath and then released it with a sigh.

“Okay.” He nodded, and licked his dry lips, “Okay.” Erik pulled him in again and whispered ardently,

 “I’m going to get you out Charles—you have to believe that.” There was a sudden jolt of movement from the end of the corridor, and Charles could hear footsteps moving toward them. In a flurry Hank packed up his supplies, scrambling to his feet. Charles pushed at Erik, urging him to go, but Erik clung onto him, turned Charles’ face away from the guard's approach and back towards himself.

“Charles, do you believe me?” Charles answered him the only way his heart and brain and stomach knew how.

“Yes—“ he hissed and dragged Erik into another kiss, the pain in his taped together face be damned.

And then he was shoving Erik back and pulling his hood up, separating their intertwined bodies painfully, like pulling apart a knitted wound.

Erik quickly got to his feet and made his bearing small and hunched over just as Mortimer reappeared at the door and ushered them all out. Moira squeezed Charles’ shoulder tightly and then they were gone, and the torchlight with them, all warmth and light and comfort trailing in their wake.

The bars slammed home and the lock clicked shut once more. Charles tried to be strong, but felt for a single, terrifying moment that he was all alone in the world, and that he would never feel that warmth again. He shivered and lay down on his side, wrapping his arms around himself, allowing his eyes to readjust to the darkness once more.


	16. Chapter 16

He woke again to sudden noise. There was a clamouring of metal footsteps and voices, and then violence—his arms clenched tight in an angry and unrelenting grip, his eyes blinded by torchlight.

They hauled him up though his entire body resisted, cold and numb, immobile for too long with too little care. He tried to get to his feet, but the men on either side of him pulled him onwards and would not allow him to steady himself. He was dragged out of his cell, hands cuffed roughly behind him, arms pulled nearly out of their sockets as he was wrenched into motion.

He could hear Logan’s voice shouting at the soldiers to let Charles go, caught a glimpse of him standing at the closed door of his own cell through the bright spots of light clouding his vision. Fruitless, but kind of him to try. Charles tried to thank him, tried to get his lips to form words, but was struck silent with a hard blow to the face. He swallowed down any thanks or goodbye for his friend. After the first time they hit him, he kept his mouth shut, biding his time and waiting to see what was to come.

As they ascended out of the belly of the palace where the cells were kept in darkness and shadow, Charles could make out the faces of the silent  mob. They were Shaw’s personal guard, the men who had stood around and watched as Shaw had accused Charles of being an adulterer out on the palace grounds. Their faces were cruel above their shining armor and he knew he would find no friends here.

They took him to a room he had only seen once before, and his heart twisted to see it sullied now in a dark, horrible time. It was the hall with the arched windows facing eastward toward the sea; the room where he and Erik had been married almost a year previous, though it was empty now of party guests in all their finery and his friends whispering encouragement at his back. He could still picture King Jakob smiling welcome at him in the distance and Erik, brooding and stern, waiting for him at the end of the hall. Erik, who he would come to love more than he could have understood that first day.

Now there was only a massive wooden chair on a dais where Shaw sat waiting for him like a King, legs stretched languorously out in front of him, his body an insouciant sprawl.

Charles was forced to his knees by a heavy hand on the back of his neck, his body folding easily until his bones landed painfully on the floor. The guards held him there and when Shaw spoke, his voice ringing through the room and echoing off each wall like a death knell, Charles tried to look him in the eye and was shoved roughly down again.

“Charles of the house Xavier, Prince Consort of Genosha,” Shaw called out, his voice louder and more haughty than Charles had ever heard him before. It was the voice of a man who though himself a winner, and took vicious pride in kicking his opponent when they were down.

“You have been accused of adulterous acts, and treason against the crowd of Genosha. What have you to say for yourself?”

Charles raised his head to address the hall and was ceremoniously shoved down again. Gritting his teeth, he took a breath to steady his voice.

“Is this a trial? Or a lynching?”

He could hear the sneer in Shaw’s voice when he replied.

“If you have nothing to say, Charles, we can move on—“

Charles felt a rage well up in him like he had never known before.

“What good is a denial when you have already convicted me? I am innocent…and I think we both know who the guilty party is, don’t we, Sebastian.”

There was movement and when Charles glanced up, Shaw was on his feet, his hand on the pommel of his sword. Stepping down off the dais, he strode toward Charles and knocked the hands of the guards away from him, stroking gentle, almost paternal fingers through his hair.

They remained that way for a moment, taking each other’s measure until Shaw smiled.

“If you think anyone will believe you now, you’re more stupid than I thought you were.” He stroked the side of Charles’ face roughly and gripped his chin with long, cold fingers. “No one is going to believe the word of a Westchester whore.”

Shaw released him abruptly and Charles crumpled to the ground. Slowly he pulled himself upright, prepared to meet whatever was coming with as much strength as he had left.

Shaw was back to orating, his voice carrying over the heads of all assembled and out the open windows. Charles imagined he could see it flying out over the sea, his voice painting Charles’ name into an effigy for the world to witness before he set it on fire.

“Charles Xavier is hereby found guilty of adultery and high treason,” he turned and looked at Charles from across the room, and smiled. All of his teeth were sharp, like a great predator preparing to grip the jugular of its cornered prey,

“By the power vested in me by the King of Genosha, his royal highness King Jakob the fourth, may he live forever, I hereby condemn you to death by sword, to be carried out at dusk by my own hand as Royal Commander of the Genoshan army.”

There was a pause as all eyes were drawn to the windows, where the sky was flush with red and purple as the sun sank below the horizon.

“And look,” Shaw said, his smile growing wider until it threatened to engulf his entire face with malicious glee, “It’s nearly dusk now.”

The sound of his sword pulling free from its scabbard was overly loud in Charles’ ears and for a paralyzing moment he felt utter panic and despair. If Erik and Moira had a plan, they were going to be too late. Shaw had obviously taken matters into his own hands and taken Charles from his cell before anyone had expected. Now would snatch Charles’ life out from him before he was ready, before Charles or anyone else could do anything to stop him, before he would have a chance to see Erik or say goodbye. His brain was sick and numb with fatalistic fear, his eyes locked on Shaw’s sword as it glinted sliver in the light of the falling sun.

And then a voice called out from behind him.

“No.”

Charles recognized that voice like he recognized his own reflection in the mirror. He twisted around and felt his heart swell within his chest until he thought it might explode and burst forth from his chest. There in the wide open doorway of the hall was Erik, his face set in stone. At his left and right were Moira and Armando, who Charles hadn’t seen away from his post at the King’s doorway since Jakob had fallen ill. Gone was the perpetually jovial expression he had for Charles when he came to visit. In its place was a mask of anger, darkening his cheeks and his expression to a thunder cloud.

Behind him were more of the royal guard and to Charles heart rending delight, a motley assortment of palace staff: Raven, Angel, Sean and Hank, Alex and Emma. His friends. The closest thing he had to family. For a moment, he thought he might weep.

“What is the meaning of this?” Erik asked, his voice low with barely concealed rage. “I was told of no trial and here I see you’re about to execute my husband without my consent?”

Shaw looked surprised and caught off guard for a moment before he slipped into a familiar, pleasant smile like a protective shroud.

“Erik, I thought to spare you the pain of the proceedings—“

“No,” Erik cut in through a clenched jaw. Charles could see how tightly his anger was reigned in and how much it cost him to stand there and speak with Shaw as though they were still equals, friends.

“No? My lord, I believe your judgment may be compromised—“

“No, I mean that you no longer have any sway over Charles’ life or my life, or my father’s life, which you tried to take from him.” Shaw’s eyes widened with horrified understanding. “You no longer have any position of power or authority in this government, in this country. I strip it from you.” Erik incandescent now in his anger, beautiful and sharp, and burning like the sun. “You are nothing and no one, and if you wish to draw another breath, you will step forward and allow yourself to be put in irons and brought as low as you brought my husband these past few days. You will know what darkness is like, and indignity. And then you will know death by my own hand.”

There was silence then, all-consuming after the ferocious build of Erik’s voice, and when Charles turned back to Shaw he saw him adrift and dumbfounded for the first time. His sword was still hanging free, clutched loosely in nerveless fingers, and the room held its breath, waiting to see what he would do next.

He seemed to make a decision, and Charles’ heart sank as his hand curled around the hilt of his sword, raising it up and leveling its tip at Erik.

“No.” He drew in a breath and smiled that cruel smile once more, the truth of his nature on display for all to see.

“If you want to put me in chains, you’re going to have to do it yourself, little Prince.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Charles could see Moira shift to move in front of Erik in defense, but Erik placed a hand on her arm, shaking his head minutely. His eyes were trained on Shaw as they stared each other down at opposite ends of the room.

In one swift movement, he pulled his sword free of its sheath and nodded.

“Alright.”

They moved toward one another as the room startled into action, everyone clearing to the sidelines to make space. Charles, realizing he was trapped in between them, struggled to his feet.

Moira was at his side in an instant, hauling him out of the way. He felt back against Raven, who clutched him close enough that he felt her heart fluttering in her chest. He could hear her speaking in his ear, asking if he was alright, but he only had eyes for Erik as he raised his sword and brought it down to meet Shaw’s with a resounding clang.

It was unbearable to watch, but impossible to draw his eyes away. They were nearly matched in every way, Erik having been Shaw’s pupil for his entire life, in combat as in almost everything else. What Shaw had in experience, Erik made up for in youth and an anger that honed his skills to a razor’s edge.

The fight seemed to go on for endless hours, though it must only have been a handful of moments, and just when it seemed that neither would get the upper hand, Shaw parried and hacked down at Erik with a vicious blow, catching him across the shoulder as he tried to dodge away.

The sound of Erik crying out cut Charles to the core, and Raven and Moira held onto him as he leap unthinkingly toward them. Erik shook off the pain and changed sword hands, swinging his sword around in a perfect circle to better settle his grip, and squaring off against Shaw once more.

Shaw was breathing harder now and when he charged at Erik again, his thrust had the slightest edge of desperation. Erik was not as swift with his left hand, however, and was forced back and back, almost to the edge of the circle of guards standing sentry around the edges of the room.

Perhaps to conceal his labored breathing, or to hide the slight unsteadiness of his hand, Shaw sneered again and goaded Erik,

“Always know when to retreat, right Erik? Something you learned from your mother?”

In an instant, the room was quiet and cold. Erik went still, his sword still raised defensively across his body.

“What?” he asked, his voice low and nearly imperceptible.

Shaw, sensing a shift in the tide, smiled wider.

“Did I never tell you my last memory of your dear mother? It was of her back as she led the retreat off the battlefield in Westchester.”

Erik seemed almost like a statue, so still he might not have been breathing.

Shaw was warming to his subject now, circling around and forcing Erik back to the center of the room.

“Retreat,” he spat in disgust, “running away from a bunch of limp wrist, painted idiots pretending to be real soldiers.” He pushed close to Erik, the tip of his sword almost brushing the buttons on Erik’s chest. “Let this be a lesson to you, my boy. My final lesson.”

In the hush of the room, his words were loud and unbearable, like the crush of an inevitable wave.

“It’s easy to slip a dagger in between the ribs of someone running away. In the heat of battle, no one is the wiser.” He smiled and Charles knew in his heart of hearts it would be for the last time. “A man or woman who runs away leaves their back open for attack.” He used his sword then to slice a thin line down the center of Erik’s chest. Erik remained motionless, unreadable, listening to the words that would seal their fate.

“They’re basically asking for it.”

The room was silent, frozen in time for one horrible moment before Erik drew his sword up, his voice pouring from him in an agonizing wail that shattered Charles to pieces. The swordfight whirled into motion again, only this time Shaw was on the defensive, backing up again and again as Erik hacked and slashed away at him.

But it was without skill or artistry, only pure blind rage and despair and anguish. Soon enough, in a sickening turn, Shaw brought his sword down hard enough to knock Erik’s loose from his hand. In an instant, he brought his hilt down on Erik’s head so that he was knocked senseless, dropping weak and disoriented to his knees.

“A fair attempt,” Shaw said, stepping close and bringing his sword up, preparing for the final blow, “but you never could manage to best me, could you Erik?”

Before Charles knew what he was doing he was in motion. The room was a blur, Raven and Moira’s hands grasping at him as he slipped away, his legs sprinting forward, ankle and knee bending almost of their own volition. His hands were still cuffed behind his back, but it didn’t matter as he barreled artlessly into Shaw, surprising him and knocking them both to the floor.

Without his hands to brace himself, he landed hard on his chest, his chin bouncing painfully off the flagstones, and for a moment he saw stars. There was a scrambling moment and as his vision cleared and he rolled over onto his back he saw Shaw standing above him, his sword recovered and pointing toward him, his sneering façade gone and replaced with unadorned anger.

“How dare you!” He shouted, “How dare you interfere!” He moved abruptly towards him, and Charles braced himself for the killing blow. “I’m going to finally do what I should have done months ago,” Shaw muttered as he raised his arm, his eyes full of bloody, murderous intent, mad and unthinking--

And then everything stopped. Shaw’s eyes grew wide and surprised as his mouth fell open in shock to reveal a well of blood gurgling up from his throat and over his lips. From over his shoulder, Charles could see Erik’s face as he moved in close and thrust his sword in further until it burst through Shaw’s chest on the other side.

“Never leave your back open for attack, right Sebastian?” he said, pressing his face close to Shaw’s ear so that he wouldn’t miss a single word. Shaw dropped his sword, his hands coming up to clumsily grasp at the blade erupting through his sternum. He turned his head and the two men looked at each other for the last time, one disbelieving, the other vindicated and heartsick, his face covered in blood. Erik thrust the blade in further and Charles could hear the death rattle in Shaw’s chest, saw the life fade from his eyes, but not before Erik’s final words.

“You taught me well.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared for violence in this chapter--they're not out of the woods yet!

There was silence first, and after: complete and utter chaos.

Erik pulled his sword from Shaw’s body in a swift movement and the former Herzog collapsed to the stone floor in a sickening crunch of loose flesh and bone. His lifeless limbs flopped dangerously close to where Charles was also sprawled on the ground, his pale hand close enough to reach out and touch Charles’ shoulder.

Charles found he was unable wrench his gaze from the white vacant void of Shaw’s unseeing eye, frozen and dazed until Erik crumpled to the ground next to them, the sound shaking Charles back to life. Looking at him through the lens of panicked clarity, Charles finally noticed the blood seeping along Erik’s hairline in a steady flow, staining and matting the hair down and blooming tacky and red over his skin.

Erik swayed on his knees, his eyes distant and bleary. Charles watched helplessly as Erik’s nerveless fingers lost their grip on the polished hilt of his sword and it clattered to the ground next to him. He barely caught himself on shaking hands as his body sagged, and the sound of his palms on the stone floor acted as the catalyst.

Like a sudden thunderstorm, the room exploded into anarchy.

Some of Shaw’s men, finding themselves on the losing side of the burgeoning political struggle, threw down their weapons and raised their hands in surrender. Others chose to fight, and the red robes of Shaw’s men crashed into the motley assortment of Erik’s defenders in colour and strife. The two sides of the room swelled together in the center, a sudden writhing, rioting mass, and the sound of voices shouting and metal clashing against metal was deafening in the echoing hall.

Charles forced himself into action. Wriggling around on the floor he wrenched his bound hands back and down and under his hips, straining until he thought his shoulders were dislocating. There was a sick crack and pop, all but forgotten as his hands, still chained together, could be looped under his feet and thrust front of him as he crawled over Shaw’s body and tried to get to Erik.

He was almost within reach, pale and disoriented, body swaying as Charles grasped for him but only captured air. There was a flash of red and suddenly one of Shaw’s men was between them. Charles recognized him as the man who had hauled Charles from his prison cell and struck him across the face like a disobedient dog. He had his sword raised to bear down on Erik’s head, and Charles grabbed at him to stall his murderous intent, catching desperately at his cloak. Charles shouted for Erik, but Erik was barely conscious, his fingers limply searching for his sword, his eyes trying to focus on Charles’ face.

The solider growled and kicked at Charles, striking him in the chest and knocking the wind out of him and when Charles reached for him again, wheezing, the man stomped down hard on his grasping left hand. Charles shouted and then retched at the sharp, howling agony of his bones snapping and grinding together.

Cradling his mangled palm to his chest, he looked up in desperation to see it was just enough of a distraction. Emma had reached them and was throwing herself in front of Erik, and Armando coolly deflected the soldier’s sword before shoving him backwards. Sliding backwards on one hand, clumsy and shaking, Charles tried to get out from under foot, shouting for Erik, looking for a clear path to him through the sea of hacking swords and bloodshed.

He was suddenly hauled him up to his feet and he stomped and struggled until he recognized Moira’s voice in his ear, shouting for him to be calm. Frantic and relieved, he twisted around to face her.

“Moira!” he shouted desperately, clinging to her sleeve with his uninjured hand. “We need to help Erik!”

She shook her head, grabbing hold of him and tugging him toward the exit. He resisted her pull, tried to shake her loose.

“Please, Moira! He’s hurt!”

“So are you!” she exploded, turning back to him and gripping his shoulders tight, shaking him slightly. Her face was pale and pinched tight, and when she spoke her voice low and fraught with tension. “Charles, my duty is to get you out of here.”

As she looked at him, her brown eyes massive and flinted with iron, the room seemed to spin to a stop until there was only a quiet bubble around the two of them. He couldn’t do it. After all that Erik had done for him, after everything he had been through, Charles would not desert him now. He felt a tide of anger and courage rise up in his chest that he had never experienced before, and he realized abruptly that even now, stunned and broken and bleeding, he felt strong. Strong enough to help Erik. Strong enough to fight.

“No.” Moira opened her mouth to argue, but whatever she saw in his expression made her pause. They stood frozen in their bizarre tableau as the room raged around them before her mouth screwed up in a frown and she released his arms, shoving him behind her body and drawing her sword.

“Charles,” she growled, “if you get killed, I will never forgive you.”

She lunged forward, one hand on her sword, the other wrapped in Charles’ shirt as she dragged him after her. They made it only a handful of steps before a man appeared before them, as though stepping out of thin air. Charles recognized him, familiar dark eyes and a smile that seemed shadowed in darkness, like a glinting nightmare. Charles felt his breath shudder and stop in his chest.

He knew this man, if only from a distance, and had always felt a chill when he saw him lurking in corners, a silent step behind Shaw as he swept grandly down the halls of the palace. Now Shaw’s second in command stood alone, his double swords positioned across his chest, bowing to Moira with a small, mocking tilt of his head, the tang of his steel already dripping with dark blood.

Moira shoved at Charles and he tripped and stumbled out of the way, watching in horror as Moira engaged, striding forward to meet him as he came at her with a sword in each hand, swift and lethal. He leaned against the wall as Moira parried the first strike and lunged at the man, the two of them seemingly matched in strength and speed, and felt a grasping sense of futility, stuck along the sidelines, unable to help Moira or himself, not without a weapon—

He looked around, frantic, looking for Erik, for a discarded sword and saw, like an unfolding nightmare, Hank sprawled on the ground only a few feet away, his hands raised above his head to fend off the imminent blow of a red cloaked guard standing over him with a sword clutched above his head in a two handed grip.

Without thought, without hesitation, he was throwing himself at the guard and shoving him to the ground. The man shouted in surprise and dropped his sword and Charles followed him down, kneeling over him and grasping the hilt of the fallen sword before the man below him could reach it. The man barred his teeth and reached for Charles instead, caught him around the throat and strangled him with wide palms, thumbs pushing him into his skin, crushing, constricting, right until Charles tightened his grip around the sword and lifting it, plunged it into the soldier’s chest.

He distantly recognized that his body was gasping for air as the soldier’s grip went slack, that blood was washing over his hands, across his thighs, but all of that was secondary to the slowly vanishing life in the man’s eyes as he stared at Charles in his last moments. Charles watched, unable to look away as the man's eyes watered, a surreal thought crossing his mind in that long, lingering moment of connection. This man was young. Was someone’s son. Was maybe someone’s husband, just as Charles was.

Someone grasped his hands and tugged them away from the sword and the dead man below him, and he gasped in pain as he remembered his broken bones, now being ground together in Hank’s grip. He jerked away from Charles as though burned, his face crumpled and devastated.

“Oh–oh Charles, I’m sorry—“ Charles tried to smile reassuringly, but his face felt numb, every part of him disconnected from his center, from his heart that was distantly breaking. Hank’s wide palms grasped him under the arms instead, firm and comforting as he hauled Charles upright and away from the body beneath him.

In a sudden wave, he felt dizzy and nauseous, the room tilting under his feet. He had heard of war his entire life, had lived with the after effects of a generation lost or left behind after combat, but he had never experience death up close in this way. Death was everywhere now, all-consuming and bloody, echoing off the walls and ceiling, seeping through the windows and tiles in the floor. It came at him like a tidal wave, overwhelming, a crushing oblivion, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't get his head above the water--

And then Moira was at his side, pulling him around to face her.

“Stay with me Charles,” her voice a rock that he could reach out and cling to. He nodded and remembered to breathe. He could see over her shoulder in a huddled pile on the floor, Raven and Emma curled over Erik’s body, his face drawn and pale, his eyes shut.

Dread crashed through him, settling in his stomach and twisting his insides until he thought he might be sick. He forced his feet to move, forced the fear into adrenalin, cataloguing what was happening to his body in scientific terminology in an attempt to calm him mind and center himself. The room seemed to melt away and before he was even aware he had moved he was falling to his knees at Erik’s side.

“Is he…” His voice sounded distant and foreign in his own ears. Raven’s head snapped up and looked at him in shock as she registered the blood on his clothes, his battered face.

“Raven please!” he begged her, his fingers curling into the fabric loose around Erik’s throat.

“No.” Emma answered for her, her voice as steady and flat as it always was, though her hair was in uncharacteristic disarray. There was something cold and centered about Emma that Charles desperately needed, something solid and unemotional that he could cling to in the storm. He settled his hands over hers on Erik’s wounded shoulder, her pale fingers stained with Erik’s blood. Absurdly, he noticed his hands were still bound together at the wrist.

Hank knelt to check Erik’s eyes while Moira keeping the chaos of the room at bay with her bloody sword, her feet set wide apart as though nothing could shake her loose from her foundation. Together the four of them pulled Erik upright before Hank, beautiful, timid, bumbling Hank, slung Erik across his shoulders like he was nothing but a child and moved swiftly from the room. The rest of them followed quickly in his wake as Moira watched their backs with a keen eye, even though the fighting seemed to be tapering out.

In the corridor outside the great hall, there was an absence of sound that was jarring and disorienting. Charles stumbled, his ears ringing, but was caught and propelled forward, surrounded on all sides by fierce woman he was lucky enough to call his friends. And with Raven and Emma on either side and Moira at his back, he allowed the others to carry him for a little while.

***

He stayed with Erik as long as he could, helplessly gazing at his unconscious body as Hank dragged a needle through the seeping gash on his forehead. Charles clutched Erik’s arm, begged him to be alright and soothed him back to sleep when Erik surfaced into consciousness, his lips soundlessly parsing the shape of Charles’ name.

When Raven hauled him away he fought her until he realized he was about to fall over, the room spinning sickeningly before his eyes. She sat him down in a hard backed chair in what he realized later was Hank’s office, a sterile and uncluttered room, where he waited until Hank arrived, wiping his hands clean of Erik’s blood.

He gave Charles a thick potion to drink, bitter and oily, clinging to the inside of Charles’ throat before settling heavy in his stomach. He choked it down, grateful for the way it made his head hazy and numbed his many pains as Hank, with careful and steady fingers, set the bones in his broken hand. Raven was there with a silver basin that she held below his mouth, running soothing fingers through his hair when he was sick with each shocking jolt of pain. Moira stood at his other side and clung to his good hand as though she was trying to suck the pain from him directly into her own body.

When he was done and Charles’ hand was wrapped and splinted, Hank gave him another drought of the same potion. While Raven helped him drink it down, clumsy with pain as he was, Hank looked at him steadily.

“You saved my life, Charles. I owe you my life.”

It was the last thing Charles remembered before slumping backwards into sleep, a dark oblivion swallowing him up until there was nothing else.

***

When he woke he was in his own bed. He couldn’t remember how he got there, or who had brought him but he was clean of blood, his own and Erik’s and the blood of the man he had killed. Someone had wrapped him in warm woolen trousers and one of Erik’s soft knit sweaters, and he grasped the collar of it, breathing in the lingering smell of Erik’s skin.

He couldn’t wrap his head or hands around what had transpired in the last few days. He felt changed, old and tired and bruised, as though he had passed through the ring of fire and survived, but not before he was badly burned. The Charles of last week, of last year was gone, and he wasn’t sure what to make of the Charles that remained.

He longed for Erik. How quickly their bed seemed cold and strange without him.

When he got up intending to check on Erik in the healing wing, the room reeled and swayed around him and he was forced to lie back down. He tried to keep his eyes open and his mind alert so that he would be awake when Erik eventually came back, or Raven or Moira or someone with news, but eventually sleep took him again, sweet and intoxicating and undeniable.

***

Later he drifted awake to the glow of the late day sun spiraling through a crack in the white gauze curtains, a wide beam of light warming the blankets covering his legs. He was disoriented for a moment before he realized he was lying on Erik’s side of the bed, closer to the window and curled around his pillow.

He thought for a moment that the heat of the blankets had woken him, but there was a dip in the mattress behind him, the weight of someone crawling onto the bed. He thought to tense, to turn and defend himself, but he felt lethargic, calm and weighted and warm, and when an arm slipped around his waist and tugged him gently backwards he felt, finally, safe.

Erik tucked his face into the curve of his shoulder and inhaled deeply. Charles could feel him shaking and how broken his breathing was against the back of his neck, stirring the short, fine hairs there. He struggled with the blankets, freeing his legs and turned over in Erik’s arms, resting his broken hand against his chest. He brought his other hand to Erik’s face, looking him over carefully, counting the stitches lining his forehead, frowning at how pale his cheeks were and the shadows under his eyes. Erik bent to place a kiss at his wrist above the bandages of his splinted hand before he carefully clutched him closer, bringing their foreheads together. Charles ran his palm down his back, soothing him until his breathing steadied.

“Thank you Charles.”

Charles shut his eyes and listened to the sound of their exhalations layering over one another. “For what?” he whispered.

“I’m sorry about this,” Erik whispered as he ran a light caress over Charles’ broken hand, “but you saved my life.”

Charles huffed and shook his head, leaning back to place a kiss above Erik’s eyebrow.

“You’re the one that saved me.” He tipped their heads together again, and for a while they were silent and drifting, anchored into each other and nothing else.

“He killed my mother.” Erik’s voice was wet and stilted and Charles clutched him closer. “He tried to kill my father. He tried to kill you. He’s dead and I still hate him so much. I could kill him one hundred times over.”

“It’s over now,” Charles said, but the words rang falsely in his mouth, sitting on his tongue like wood. Erik had been betrayed in the worst possible way. His body would probably heal before his mind would, or his heart. And Charles couldn’t stop thinking about the dead, about the lives snuffed out because of him. He didn’t think his hands would ever be washed clean.

They were broken in body and mind, but here in this safe place, warm and wrapped in each other, Charles couldn’t help but think that they would be okay, even if Shaw and the dead would never quite be washed away.

So he tried to say something else, something true.

“I love you.”

Those words came easier, and he wondered how he had gone so long without saying it when the words were effortless, like breathing.

And when Erik pulled him closer still and breathed in and out, deep and cleansing, and said, “I feel like I’ve belonged to you my whole life,” he felt something in himself settle and break free, set and heal like broken bones, painful and raw, but laid in hope to one day be whole again.

 


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't apologize enough for how long it took me to write this last chapter. Thank you so, so much to everyone who commented and left kudos, who offered support and encouragement and kind words over the past two years (TWO YEARS OH MY GOD). I hope this is remotely worth the long wait!!!
> 
> Thanks especially to Roz and Ike for helping me beta this last chapter, and to the following artists for the AMAZING ART WHAT HOW??
> 
> ZutaraBeliever: http://zutarabeliever-art.tumblr.com/post/83522720742/i-was-reading-a-great-wip-fanficton-called-city-by
> 
> Yuuyamiartist: http://yuuyamiartist.tumblr.com/post/53483165857/part-4-found-on-my-deviantart-account-here
> 
> avictoriangirl: http://avictoriangirl.tumblr.com/post/45791760508/in-an-effort-to-wake-my-muse-out-of-hibernation-i
> 
> If you want to chat, you can find me over on tumblr (http://black--betty.tumblr.com/)

 

EPILOGUE

There never had been a simple comfort or a safe haven in Westchester; nothing warm or soft, nothing holy. The palace rose up before them in the distance, pale and beautifully carved perfection, its white pillars capped in snow. It was hard to imagine a child hiding behind the marble walls and growing into something flesh and blood. There was no warmth or tenderness in the faultless arches, nothing of home. Only the frigid and desolate kiss of winter.

The palace guard stood sentry as the carriage rolled to a stop at the wrought iron gate, rows and rows of stern-faced young men in formal military dress waiting to greet them. Their sabers were drawn and held aloft as Charles and Erik stepped out into the cold, an elegant ballet of precise movement to honour a visiting royal. As they passed under the sharp steel blades, Charles wondered how many of these lives they had saved by weeding out Shaw’s poison in Genosha; balanced each youthful frown against his bloodstains he still carried on his hands.

There was only silence as they walked across the courtyard toward the palace, the wind blowing aimless spinning whirlwinds of snow across the wide expanse, a narrow, blue velvet carpet muting their footsteps. His mother stood waiting for them on the palace steps, surrounded by her picturesque retinue of ladies in waiting shivering in silver damask and lace gloves. Her face was just the same, carved from soapstone and powered white, her body swathed in white cloth and unmovable as a statue.

She did not blink when Charles came to stand before her, did not offer a smile or embrace for her son, merely held out her hand for a kiss. Her skin was cold and dry beneath his lips, stark against the blue lines of her veins. Once his mouth had pressed a fleeting touch upon her, she quickly lifted her hand away, turning smoothly to lead the procession inside.

“That welcome was about as warm as the weather,” Erik murmured, his breath hot against the exposed skin of Charles throat as he leaned in. Charles shivered, but felt himself thaw just a little, reaching out to brush his broken and splinted fingers against the back of Erik’s hand.

 As they passed through the entranceway and into the grand hall beyond, the soaring painted dome above their heads echoed with polite applause. As a child he had been in awe of the dome, had spent hours staring at the expansive fresco of silver stars, the massive glittering moon and distant planets. It struck him that only twelve months had passed since he last walked beneath the gilded arches. A single year and it felt like a lifetime. He remembered the lonely, naïve boy who had dreamed of the endless wonder of the night sky and felt weary right down to his bones. Four weeks since Shaw had died and his hand and heart were still broken. The pristine and unblemished corridors of Westchester seemed to understand nothing of heartache or loss.

The servants and courtiers were gathered in the corridor to see their prince and his new husband as the procession moved slowly through the palace toward the throne room. He could see how they whispered behind their gloved hands, sharp eyes raking over Charles’ foreign dress and dark fur cloak, his coal painted eyes, his new scars and fading bruises. He wished he could reach out to take Erik’s hand, but tradition dictated that they not touch until they were behind closed doors again. He tangled his fingers into the fur of his cloak instead and concentrated on moving his feet.

Kurt was waiting for them as they proceeded into the solemn austere throne room. His beard had more grey than the last time Charles had seen him, though his shoulders seemed as broad and intimidating as they had when Charles was a child. Cain was seated at his right hand, as befitting the heir, and his mother swept up to the throne at his left to take her seat and turn a cool eye upon them once again. Charles thought about the throne room in Genosha, the brass lanterns and carved wood, the windows open and close enough to the sea so that you could hear the waves rolling in. In contrast, the halls of Westchester seemed as cold and quiet as a tomb.

Erik inclined his head, a sign of mutual respect and equal status, but Kurt remained in his seat and peering down at them closely. 

“Is your father not here? Where is the King of Genosha?”

“My father has been ill,” Erik responded, voice leveled of all emotion.

“Too ill to partake in this sacred tradition?” Kurt raised a heavy eyebrow. “Too ill to grace our halls when we travelled to his Kingdom one year past and paid homage to his customs, his traditions?”

The words are cold and unfeeling, but carefully calculated. Charles felt Erik tense beside him as the insult wriggled under his skin as it was intended to, and so he spoke up before Erik could order his thoughts.

“The King sends his deepest regrets. He submits this gift as penance, and asks for your pardon.” He glanced up at Erik with a sympathetic eye and watched as his mouth tightened before he pulled a small chest from beneath the folds of his cloak. He held it out, unlocking it to reveal an array of red gemstones, their origins fixed within Genoshian soil and greatly sought after by those who lived outside its borders.

The sheen of glittering jewels seemed to reflect in Kurt’s eyes, and he smiled, momentarily appeased.

“Let us pray for his quick recovery.”

*** 

Once the formalities of welcome were over, Kurt led their company through to the dining hall. There Charles was forced to endure dinner seated next to his brother, who leaned close at the first chance he got to ask Charles if he liked Genoshan cock. It was the same sneering vulgarity from their childhood, Cain sinking his teeth into Charles and tearing away little pieces of him—one of his favourite games. Before Charles would have blushed, or burned with impotent anger. Now he leaned over and whispered to Cain how much he did, in fact, enjoy his husband’s cock and had the pleasure of watching Cain fumble his fork with a loud clatter that drew a cold look from their mother.

It was fortunate that he was seated next to Erik as well, and he wondered how he had ever survived the formal dinners of his youth without Erik’s hand sneaking beneath the table to squeeze his thigh or brushing their feet together. His presence, and the range of Genoshan guards lined against the wall at their back, reminded Charles that this return to his youth was a mere temporary exchange. It was enough to help him choke down the dry pheasant and small, bitter plums, helped drown out the lilting formal flute that droned continuously in the corner through the lips of a bored looking attendant.

Finally the dreary, stilted dinner drew to a close. Kurt stood and raised a silver goblet as the murmured chatter of the hall fell silent.

“A toast,” he said, his voice booming across the stone walls. “To my dear son and his new husband. May their union heal the wounds inflicted upon Westchester during our time of strife, and be sanctified here in our hallowed halls at the conclusion of this first full year.” Charles raised his glass in answer and drank along with the assembled peerage though he was choking on Kurt’s words like a piece of pheasant bone. As they stood to retire, there was no bawdy cheering or frivolity as there had been in Genosha on his wedding night, scattered petals and music and firelight. There was only the cold regard of his mother, the lofty condescension of the curious crowd, the crude sneer of his brother who winked grotesquely as Charles and Erik stepped down from the head table and made their way out of the hall.

Charles reached out and took Erik’s hand, tradition be damned.

*** 

It wasn’t until they were in their assigned bedroom and the door was sealed shut behind them that Charles felt as though he could breathe again. Their trunk was there, packed with enough clothes for a week, though Charles was planning on leaving in the morning, as soon as they could flee without breaching decorum. 

“I had hoped they might quarter us in your old rooms,” Erik said, grinning mischievously as he allowed his stoic mask to fall. “I was hoping to root out some of your childhood secrets.” Charles looked around at the familiar walls, wallpapered in his mother’s favourite blue and silver damask.

“This is my room.” He sunk onto the closed trunk so as not to crease the perfectly folded silk blankets on the bed. “Or it was. It never really felt like it belonged to me.”

“This--?” Erik moved around the room incredulously, taking in the uncomfortable chairs, fingers tracing along the marble fireplace. “Was it like this when you were a child?”

“More or less.” Charles peeled off his leather boots and tossed them to the side, stretching out his toes.

“Didn’t you have toys? Or books?” He turned to look at Charles. “You must have had books.”

“ _Toys are frivolities for common children_ ,” Charles quoted. It was a line he had heard many times as a child. “And books were meant for the library. Although...” he stood and headed over to the far corner where a heavy curtain hung from the ceiling, obscuring the wall between the bed and a massive wardrobe inlaid with mother of pearl. He pulled the curtain back hesitantly and saw the little door was still there, dusty and obscured but still solidly tucked into the corner. 

He tried the handle and felt it give, was able to pull the little door forward on rusty hinges that groaned with misuse. Erik pressed up behind him and peeked over his shoulder into the gloomy passageway beyond.

“One of your childhood secrets after all?” he asked, squeezing Charles on the arm.

Charles crouched down and peered inside. “Hand me a light?”

Erik passed him one of the crystal lanterns from the bedside and he crawled through the door, holding the light awkwardly in front of him as he shuffled along.

“Can’t say I mind the view,” Erik said, crawling in behind him, “though it’s a bit of a tight squeeze. 

Charles allowed himself a private, giddy smile. “Yes, well, it was enough to deter Cain from following me in here.” Finally the passage opened into a tiny stone alcove just big enough for Charles to stand in. A small window set high into the wall filtered pale, frosted light over the thick cushions that still covered the stone floor and the pile of rough wool blankets folded messily in the corner. Charles crawled in further so that Erik could push in next to him, his heart growing painfully full as he spotted the row of books lined neatly against one wall. The pages were slightly damp and mildewed as he picked one up and flipped through it, but the words were still the same, each one familiar and beloved.

“This was yours,” Erik said, looking around before his eyes came back to Charles again. “Your secret place.”

 Charles nodded, unable to explain though he remembered Erik’s beach, the quiet crash of waves upon the shore and high, protective stone walls, and knew he understood. He couldn’t count the number of hours he spent tucked away in this room, free to read without constant belittling supervision, free to imagine, free to slouch and sprawl and forgo his painful, perfect posture. Space to breathe. Strange that he felt more comfort in this room alone than he did surrounded by people in he palace beyond. This was the place where he came to be alone, and to take a break from loneliness.

Erik settled into the cushions and selected one of the books along the wall. He seemed so at ease here, like he had been carved of the same stone and Charles’ childhood dreams. When Erik asked, “Were these your favourites?” holding the book aloft, Charles could only nod, his voice trapped at the back of his throat. Erik tugged him down so that they were laying side by side, and Charles rested his head on his chest as Erik slowly ran his fingers through his hair, flipping the book open to a page that Charles had marked with a piece of scrap paper. 

 _When despair for the world grows in me_ , he read aloud,

_and I wake in the night at the least sound_

_in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,_

_I go and lie down where the wood drake_

_rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds._

_I come into the peace of wild things_

_who do not tax their lives with forethought_

_of grief. I come into the presence of still water._

_And I feel above me the day-blind stars_

_waiting with their light. For a time_

_I rest in the grace of the world, and am free._

Slowly the strain of the day eased from Charles’ shoulders until eventually Erik’s fingers and the sound of his voice lulled Charles into a deep, dreamless sleep.

*** 

When he woke he forgot where he was, dizzy and disoriented. For a moment he thought he was a child again, hiding from his mother or one of his tutors, one of his books clutched tightly to his chest. It was dark in the room, the light outside the window having completely melted into evening dusk, and Charles groped for a candle as he tried to reorient himself.

There was the sound of movement coming from the corridor leading back to his bedroom. He could just make out an aura of light coming closer and closer until finally Erik crept through the entranceway, a candle held aloft in one hand. He caught sight of Charles sitting up amidst the cushions and smiled, his face ghoulish in the candlelight.

“You’re awake.” He beckoned with the candle. “Come on, I have something to show you.”

He turned awkwardly and disappeared back into the tunnel and Charles followed him back out, unwilling to be left in darkness and willing as always to follow Erik anywhere he asked.

“Close your eyes,” Erik whispered and Charles obeyed, grasping Erik’s hands as he pulled him out into the open air. He clumsily brushed the dust from his robes with his bandaged fingers until Erik clasped his hands again. “Now open them.”

Charles blinked his eyes open, lashes stuck together with leftover sleep, and gasped as he took in the room around him. 

For a moment it was as though he had been transported back to their bedroom in Genosha. Brass lanterns sat on every flat surface and flickered orange light across the room. The thick, heady scent of Genoshan blooms suffused the room, gathered in bunches here and there, burgundy petals scattered across the floor and in a lazy path on top of the immaculate bedspread. Now that they were standing in the light, Charles could see that Erik was wrapped in his favourite robe, his eyes still dark with ceremonial coal.

“What is this?” he asked, looking around the room again, amazed. It was like something out of a dream, his new life colliding with his old in a burst of silk and golden candlelight. 

“I know we have to be here. And I know you hate being here.” Erik tugged on his hand to draw him closer. “But it’s still your birthday, Charles.” Charles looked up at him in surprise. “Did you think I would forget?” 

Charles shook his head. “No, but…19 isn’t really that important. It’s not much to commemorate.”

Erik’s hands came up to cradle his face. “Your life is important,” he said quietly. “Celebrating it is important to me. It means that you’re here.” His thumb came up to brush along the underside of Charles’ cheekbone. “I would give you everything, if I could.”

“You’ve already given me everything,” Charles whispered, his good hand coming up to grip the back of Erik’s head, pulling him down so their lips could meet. Charles felt overrun with love for this man, could feel it welling up inside of him threatening to burst forward in a torrent and he channeled it into every kiss, licking into Erik’s mouth with abandon, not worrying about technique or experience, only with measuring every inch of him, lips and tongue and teeth.

Erik moaned and shivered, hands sliding roughly down Charles’ back to grip his hips and haul their bodies closer together. Charles pushed at him clumsily with his bandaged and splinted hand, and they stumbled toward the bed, weaving here and there and kissing each other in an influx of desperate yearning. Erik spun them at the last moment and Charles landed on his back on the soft, downy sheets, crushing the soft fragrant petals beneath him. Erik followed him quickly, their legs slotting together so that they could grind against each other. Charles’ mouth felt swollen and bruised, but he couldn’t stop kissing Erik, couldn’t stop his fingers from pressing marks into Erik’s shoulders as he shoved the robe away, aching to get at bare skin.

It was hard maneuvering with one hand but he managed to push the robe down the smooth slope of Erik’s back just far enough to get his hand on the bare skin of Erik’s ass, gripping him tight and thrusting up against him to feel his cock. Erik groaned and broke away from his mouth, kissing him against his jaw, scraping his teeth against his throat. Charles gasped and squeezed him tighter between his thighs, feet pressing against the mattress to turn them over so he could straddle Erik, leaning back to untie his robe. 

Finally Erik was naked beneath him. His skin was golden from the late summer sun, muscles flexing as he reached for Charles, trying to draw him close again. Charles gently pushed him back down to the mattress, his good hand sliding down Erik’s chest and stomach, shifting his body back to grip Erik’s cock.

He stroked Erik with his left hand and though the angle was awkward, Erik’s head tipped back in pleasure. Charles gazed at him, eyes raking over every inch of him, enjoying the sharp juxtaposition between Erik’s bare skin and his own Genoshan finery, laces and fur and layers of cloth. Erik was his—he knew it now as surely as he knew he belonged to Erik in return—and he felt proud and powerful knowing that such a man was laid out beneath him, thrusting into his grip, gazing at him with such adoration.

“Charles,” Erik murmured, hands coming up to Charles’ hips to hold him tightly. He sat up suddenly, pulling Charles further into his embrace, and Charles wrapped his arms around Erik’s neck in turn, hugging him close.

“I love you,” he whispered against Erik’s ear. Erik squeezed him a little bit tighter.

“I love you too.”

They held each other for a moment longer before Erik drew back, fingers moving to the ties of his shirt and jacket, the stays of his trousers. Charles distracted him with kisses, laughing when Erik forgot himself and leaned into him, fingers straying from his work and clinging to Charles’ jaw or shoulder instead. When the swell of arousal became too much for either of them they fumbled with the rest of Charles clothes, pushing at the material until it tore away.

Charles shifted back until his head touched the pillows, drawing Erik after him until they were tangled together once again. When Erik reached for the low brazier and the shallow bowl of warming oil, Charles felt his body clench in anticipation, but Erik surprised him by dipping his fingers into the oil and bringing them to his face. His fingers anointed his brow, rubbing the warm oil into his temples and down his throat, over his shoulders where tension had held him prisoner all day. Erik’s hands returned to the oil again and again, massaging into the muscles of his arms and then his palms, smoothing a warming path across his chest and then deliciously, over his nipples, rubbing over them again and again until Charles had to bite his lip to hold in the cry threatening to rip out of his throat.

Erik continued down over his hips, unabashedly watching his own hands as they kneaded the soft flesh of Charles’ thighs. Charles’ cock was hard and aching and he felt sure that he would come as soon as Erik touched him, but Erik only nudged him over, rolling him onto his stomach so he could drip oil down his spine, spreading it down the ladder of his ribs and into the dip of his back as Charles rutted against the mattress.

 “Erik,” he moaned when he could take it no longer.

“I know,” Erik answered, his voice tight and breathless. His fingers moved to spread more oil on Charles’ thighs and Charles reached back for his hand, twisting so he could look up at him.

“I want you,” Charles said, watching as Erik’s eyes grew heavy and dark with desire, “I want you in every way.” He guided Erik’s hand to the one place it had yet to touch. He had read about this, had shivered at the thought of Erik breaching him and their bodies being united as one. 

“Are you sure?” Erik asked, rubbing his fingers there gently. Charles felt a rush of pleasure run through him and nodded, turning his face into the pillow and lifting himself up onto his knees, listening to Erik moan. 

Finally those teasing fingers slipped inside him, one, and then another, massaging against a place that made a jolt of pleasure rush through him to the very edges of his body, fingers and toes and the top of his head. Erik turned him over again and he was senseless with pleasure, crying out and reaching for Erik, but Erik was there before desperation took hold, smoothing a hand over Charles' unruly hair and kissing him deeply as his cock slid inside of him.

They were moving as surely as the tide washed the waves ashore and pulled them back into the sea, rocking together in perfect motion. Erik kissed his top and then his bottom lip while Charles panted against him, one hand clutched tightly in Erik’s hair. He gripped Erik between his legs as Erik began to thrust harder, spurring him on as he felt the delicious spiral of feeling tighten in his stomach, winding them further and further together until finally he was coming in a shaking, shuddering wave, pulling Erik along behind him. He watched, his body humming, as Erik’s eyes squeezed shut and his mouth fell open, his hips jerking twice, and then a third time before his body seemed to shudder and ease all at once.

They collapsed against each other, breathing hard, sweat clinging to their skin. Erik tucked his face into the curve of Charles’ shoulder and Charles ran his fingers through his hair, soothing him until he felt Erik fully relax against him.

They dozed for a few moments before Erik stirred and gently pulled away, slowly levering himself off the bed. Charles shivered as the air swept over his damp skin and watched as Erik made his way across the room to the washbasin beneath the moonlit window. The windowpane cast a gridwork shadow across his body as he bent to dip a clean cloth into the water, each curving muscle or sharp angle of bone captured inside a geometric outline. Watching Erik slowly wipe himself down was nearly enough to bring that thrumming arousal flooding back into his veins, water dripping down his legs to pool on the stone floor as he dipped the cloth into the water again, wringing it out and returning to the bed.

Charles ached dully as he took the cloth and cleaned himself, but he also felt intimately connected to Erik, felt as though his room had been transformed into a sanctuary at the heart of a place that had only offered him pain. He never thought he would love anything about Westchester, but in this moment he only felt a pure kind of joy. Erik kissed him slowly and his eyes when he drew back seemed to echo that tenderness, that closeness. Charles felt as though he knew Erik’s mind, like they were linked together with a golden string, heart to heart. Erik slipped between the sheets, pulling the heavy comforter over them both as Charles turned to face him, reaching out to run his foot down the side of Erik’s leg, his bandaged hand resting against Erik’s chest so he could feel his heartbeat.

He watched as Erik smiled and reached out to pluck a stray petal from Charles’ hair. 

“Happy Birthday, Charles.”

Charles didn't want to look away from him, wanted the moment to last into eternity, this feeling of being wide open and unafraid. Eventually his treacherous eyelids slid shut and a whisper of a kiss across his forehead pressed him into sleep. 

***

The next morning Charles awoke to pale late-winter sun streaming in through frosted glass and the sound of the hearth being swept out and reset. He sat up and saw a young maid with red hair hastily avert her eyes from the bed where the blankets had shifted enough to barely preserve his modesty. Erik’s body was exposed to the cool air, muscles shifted as he rolled closer to Charles, slipping a heavy arm around his waist.

“Apologies, sir,” the girl sputtered once she managed to unhinge her jaw. She stood and collected her bucket of ashes, eyes raking across Charles’ bare chest before she sketched a hasty bow and raced out of the room.

“What’s happening?” Erik mumbled, clumsily tugging Charles down next to him. Charles brushed Erik’s hair back and placed a kiss against his closed eye.

“We’re scandalizing my mother’s spies.”

Erik laughed, a low, sleepy rumble echoing from the back of this throat, and rubbed himself against Charles lazily.

“Should we put on a show for them?”

Charles grazed his lips along Erik’s cheek. “I think it’s just the two of us now.”

“Good,” Erik growled, stretching to capture Charles’ mouth in a heated kiss, pushing the remaining blankets away. 

After christening his old room a second time Charles fell into an easy doze, waking when the sun had grown warmer along with the sheets tucked carefully around his shoulders. Erik was gone, but in his place was a breakfast tray laden down with cut fruit and delicate pastry, and from the smell of it, a china pot of strong black tea.

As he poured himself a cup and held it between his palms, breathing it in, he had to admit that he did prefer the tea in Westchester. He was savouring the first sip when the bedroom door swung open and Erik stalked in, fully dressed and shaking snow from his collar.

“Good morning,” he said when he spotted Charles watching him, a sly smile creasing his lips as he took in Charles’ state of undress. “I told the red guard we’d be ready to leave by noon, but we could postpone…?”

No,” Charles laughed, taking another fortifying sip of tea before setting down his cup, “I’m getting up.” He sat for a moment longer, watching Erik move around the room, packing away the lanterns and silks from the night before. Though it had been his room for eighteen years, this was the very first time it had felt like his own space. A place he might think of with warm thoughts and linger in, eager to spend time within the sanctuary of the four walls. Erik closed the lid of the trunk and turned to him, holding up a pile of clothing like a question.

Charles slid off the bed.

“Are you sure you want to go?” Erik asked, holding out a pair of trousers. Charles stepped into them carefully, drawing them up over his hips before allowing Erik to slide a soft linen shirt over his head. “We really could postpone for a couple of days.” Together they tucked the shirt in and Erik laced the trousers while Charles held his broken hand out of the way. He shook his head.

"The only thing I like about this place is the tea." And then he laughed because it was true. It was horrible, and it was true, and for a moment he thought the laughter might turn into tears.

"Hey," Erik said, grabbing him and hugging him tightly. Charles pressed his damp eyes into the soft wool of Erik's coat. "Hey, it's okay. Let's go home."

Charles nodded. With Erik's help his pulled on his stockings and boots, and struggled into his overcoat. The room was stripped of their presence. The only sign someone had been there was the tray of cold tea sitting on the mussed bedsheets.

Erik called for their trunk to be taken away and Charles suddenly had an urge to cut every last piece of himself away from this barren room. He ran to the tapestry and peeled it back, crawling through the door and into the little room hidden behind the wall. Clumsily he gathered up all of his books in his arms and cast a last look around the space, the blankets, the cushions, and the single source of light that heralded the shift of morning into afternoon.  _Time to go_.

Erik said nothing when he returned, only opened the trunk and slipped the books carefully inside, settling them into a space that looked as though it had been saved precisely for them.

His mother was standing by the front door when they left, the peerage gathered to bid them farewell, but she had no words or affection to offer them. Charles held her gaze for a moment, suddenly sure that he wouldn’t see her again for a long time. When he turned to go, he felt nothing, no heartbreak or mourning, only the wind blowing across the silent courtyard.

Charles climbed into the carriage and settled himself into the seat, waiting until Erik slid in next to him to cover them both in the heavy travelling blanket. Erik helped him arrange the folds, tucking the thick material in around his thighs, and took Charles’ uninjured hand.

“Ready?” he asked, watching Charles closely.

Charles thought about waking up to the smell of salt water in the morning, a gentle breeze rolling in from the water outside his window. Remembered the sound of Angel’s voice as she read aloud by the fire in the hush of night, or how the last time he saw Moira she was teaching Raven how to use a sword and laughing, unfettered and free. He thought about Genosha, of the people waiting for their return, of the fragrance of leather and sweet grass down by the stables; of the quiet of their room, in the night, and the sound of waves matching each inhalation of Erik’s breath.

“Yes,” Charles said, “Let’s go home.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "City by the Sea"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/739055) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)




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